The moon had flung queer shadows across the glade in which the ring
lay, and when they stood on the edge listening intently the wood
seemed to speak to them with a hundred voices. "You can take hold of my hand, if you like," said the girl, in a
whisper. The boy dropped his flowers about his white feet and felt for the
girl's hand in the dark. Soon it lay in his own, a warm live thing,
that stirred a little with excitement. "I'm not afraid," the girl said; and so they waited. *   *   *   *   *

The man came upon them suddenly from among the silver birches. He had
a knapsack on his back and his hair was as long as a tramp's. At
sight of him the girl almost screamed, and her hand trembled in the
boy's. Some instinct made him hold it tighter. "What do you want?" he muttered, in his hoarse voice. The man was no less astonished than the children. "What on earth are you doing here?" he cried. His voice was mild and
reassuring, and the girl answered him promptly. "I came out to look for fairies." "Oh, that's right enough," commented the man; "and you," he said,
turning to the boy, "are you after fairies, too? Oh, I see; picking
flowers. Do you mean to sell them?" The boy shook his head. "For my sister," he said, and stopped abruptly. "Is your sister fond of flowers?" "Yes; she's dead." The man looked at him gravely. "That's a phrase," he said, "and phrases are the devil. Who told you
that dead people like flowers?" "They always have them," said the boy, blushing for shame of his
pretty thought. "And what are _you_ looking for?" the girl interrupted. The man made a mocking grimace, and glanced around the glade as if he
were afraid of being overheard. "Dreams," he said bluntly. The girl pondered this for a moment. "And your knapsack?" she began. "Yes," said the man, "it's full of them." The children looked at the knapsack with interest, the girl's fingers
tingling to undo the straps of it. "What are they like?" she asked. The man gave a short laugh. "Very like yours and his, I expect; when you grow older, young woman,
you'll find there's really only one dream possible for a sensible
person. But you don't want to hear about my troubles. This is more in
your line!" He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a flageolet,
which he put to his lips. "Listen!" he said. To the girl it seemed as though the little tune had leapt from the
pipe, and was dancing round the ring like a real fairy, while echo
came tripping through the trees to join it. The boy gaped and said
nothing. At last, when the fairy was beginning to falter and echo was quite
out of breath, the man took the flageolet from his lips. "Well," he said, with a smile. "Thank you very much," said the girl politely. "I think that was very
nice indeed. Oh, boy!" she broke off, "you're hurting my hand!" The boy's eyes were shining strangely, and he was waving his arms in
dismay. "All the wasted moonlight!" he cried; "the grass is quite wet with
it." The girl turned to him in surprise. "Why, boy, you've found your voice." "After that," said the man gravely, as he put his flageolet back in
his pocket, "I think I will show you the inside of my knapsack." The girl bent down eagerly, while he loosened the straps, but gave a
cry of disappointment when she saw the contents. "Pictures!" she said. "Pictures," echoed the man drily,--"pictures of dreams. I don't know
how you're going to see them. Perhaps the moon will do her best." The girl looked at them nicely, and passed them on one by one to the
boy. Presently she made a discovery. "Oh, boy!" she cried, "your tears are spoiling all the pictures." "I'm sorry," said the boy huskily; "I can't help it." "I know," the man said quickly; "it doesn't matter a bit. I expect
you've seen these pictures before." "I know them all," said the boy, "but I have never seen them." The man frowned. "It's the devil," he said to himself, "when boys speak English." He
turned suddenly to the girl, who was puzzling over the boy's tears. "It's time you went back to bed," he said; "there won't be any
fairies tonight. It's too cold for them." The girl yawned. "I shall get into a row when I get back if they've found it out. I
don't care." "The moon is fading," said the boy suddenly; "there are no more
shadows." "We will see you through the wood," the man continued, "and say
good-night." He put his pictures back in his knapsack and then walked silently
through the murmuring wood. At the edge of the wood the girl stopped. "You are a wood-boy," she said to the boy, "and you mustn't come any
farther. You can give me a kiss if you like." The boy did not move, but stayed regarding her awkwardly. "I think you are a very silly boy," said the girl, with a toss of her
head, and she stalked away proudly into the mist. "Why didn't you kiss her?" asked the man. "Her lips would burn me," said the boy. The man and the boy walked slowly across the park. "Now, boy," said the man, "since civilisation has gone to bed the
time has come for you to hear your destiny." "I am only a poor boy," the boy replied simply. "I don't think I have
any destiny." "Paradox," said the man, "is meant to conceal the insincerity of the
aged, not to express the simplicity of youth. But I wander. You have
made phrases tonight." "What are phrases?" "What are dreams? What are roses? What, in fine, is the moon? Boy, I
take you for a moon-child. You hold her pale flowers in your arms,
her white beams have caressed your limbs, you prefer the kisses of
her cool lips to those of that earth-child; all this is very well. But, above all, you have the music of her great silence; above all,
you have her tears. When I played to you on my pipe you recognised
the voice of your mother. When I showed you my pictures you recalled
the tales with which she hushed you to sleep. And so I knew that you
were her son and my little brother." "The moon has always been my friend," said the boy; "but I did not
know that she was my mother." "Perhaps your sister knows it; the happy dead are glad to seek her
for a mother; that is why they are so fond of white flowers." "We have a mother at home. She works very hard for us." "But it is your mother among the clouds who makes your life
beautiful, and the beauty of your life is the measure of your days." While the boy reflected on these things they had reached the gates of
the park, and they stole past the silent lodge on to the high road. A
man was waiting there in the shadows, and when he saw the boy's
companion he rushed out and seized him by the arm. "So I've got you," he said; "I don't think I'll let you go again in a
hurry." The son of the moon gave a queer little laugh. "Why, it's Taylor!" he said pleasantly; "but, Taylor, you know
you're making a great mistake." "Very possibly," said the keeper, with a laugh. "You see this boy here, Taylor; I assure you he is much madder than I
am." Taylor looked at the boy kindly. "Time you were in bed, Tommy," he said. "Taylor," said the man earnestly, "this boy has made three phrases.