in regard to you. She knows that I desire your happiness, and she understands me when I tell her that you seem drooping and unhappy; that it is more my misfortune than my fault (for, having but one child, I do not know the needs of children as well as those mothers who have many); and she has bidden me bring you to her, with the promise that she will make you the happy, loving little girl you ought to be. I shall feel the separation keenly, I shall miss you sadly, but knowing that my little daughter is to gain only good, I have made up my mind to let you make this visit."

Laura pouted a little, wept a little, and then, as the woods became denser, crept closer to her mother.

"Am I to stay long, mamma?" she asked.

"That I do not know; it depends upon yourself."

"And what is the fairy's name, mamma?"

"She bade me not tell you her name; she wishes you to call her simple Motherkin."

"How very queer!" said Laura. "I cannot do it."

"You will do better to obey her, my child."

"Is she cross? Is she ugly?"

"You may think her plain, but she is neither cross nor ugly."

The road here became almost blocked with bushes, and the wind in the tops of the tall pine-trees made strange music.

"I would rather go home, mamma," said Laura, in a coaxing voice.

"That cannot be done, dearest," was the reply.

"Why not?—why cannot I return with you?"

"Because I have given my promise to the fairy, and a lady, my little Laura, never breaks her word."

Laura knew that her mamma was not to be urged after speaking with so much decision; so she sank back on the cushions and tried to fall asleep. But her curiosity and anxiety were both aroused, and her eyelids would not stay shut. Presently the carriage stopped.

"I can go no farther, my lady," said the coachman.

"Then we must walk," said Lady Idleways; and she bade Laura descend also from the carriage. "You can turn the horses and unstrap Miss Laura's trunk," she also said to the man; "there will be some one coming for it very soon, so have no hesitation in delivering it." The man bowed and obeyed, and Laura, with her mother's hand in hers, plunged into the forest.

CHAPTER II

It was a new thing for Laura to find her self on foot in the woods, to push her way through the brambles, and assist her mother in finding a path, and she fretted considerably at the necessity; but her mother, taking no notice of the child's complaints, went resolutely on, as if determined not to listen to anything that would make her unwilling to complete her errand. So, clambering over fallen trees green with moss, and slipping upon the pine needles, and occasionally getting a scratch from a brier, went Lady Idleways and Laura, until they came to an opening in the forest where the blue sky again was visible; but so, also, was a great rock before them, too high for them to climb, and no way to get around it. Pausing a moment, Laura's mother picked up a little stick and rapped with it upon the rock. Instantly from under the hanging vines a door, which no one could have supposed was there, flew open, and from it came forth a neat little old lady in black gown and white cap, leaning upon a gold-headed cane.

She courtesied pleasantly and bade Lady Idleways enter; but Lady Idleways declined, saying, "I have brought my little daughter to you, my friend, as I promised. Do all you can for me and for her. I have bidden her obey you, and I prefer leaving her now, lest my heart fail me. Farewell, little Laura, for a short time. You are in excellent hands, and must not be sad at parting. Give me a pleasant smile and a nice good-bye kiss." And, clasping her in a close embrace, the mother whispered more tender words in her ears, bade the old lady take good care of her, and then turned hastily away, as if she feared to linger.

Laura beheld all this in quiet astonishment; then, as her mother left her, she flung herself upon the ground and wept passionately. But she was not allowed to do this very long, for the old lady, rapping her cane upon the rock, summoned to her assistance a funny old servant, as quaint and as curious as herself, a dwarf of kindly, smiling face, dressed in a gray blouse, with wooden shoes upon his feet, and a scarlet cap with a long tassel on his head.

"Hey, little missy!" said the old lady, "this will not do at all. Grim, pick her up and take her to her own little bedroom in my cottage. If she wishes to, she may lie there, but not here upon the ground."

As Grim approached and was about lifting her, Laura sprang up, and would have run from him, but his arms were of an extraordinary length, and he had her safely in them before she could get away; so she could only scream and sob to no purpose.

Grim whispered to her not to fear, that his mistress was very kind and good; and his own voice was so gentle, and she was so curious to see the interior of so strange an abode, that in a little while she ceased crying and looked about her.

They went in under the hidden doorway, which led to a winding path through the rocks. Here and there the sky could be seen through the foliage above, but the path was nearly all under a shelving mass of stone. At last they came to a little cottage, not much more than a hut, but it was neat and spotless; it looked as if it might be nothing but a bird's-nest built of grape-vines; but within were a tiled floor, a chimney-corner where hung a savory-smelling kettle of soup, and curiously carved chairs and shelves were against the walls.

Grim mounted a ladder in one corner, still with Laura in his arms, and placed her in a tidy upper room, where were one window, a little stool, and a straw bed.

"There, child; now do be good, and don't trouble the Motherkin. She is used to children, and they all learn to love her; and if there is anything I can do for you, I am always ready; but no more of this angry sobbing, I beg of you."

So saying, Grim went off down the ladder, leaving Laura alone.

The child was bewildered. What could she do alone? Never had she been alone at home; the nurses were always beside her, except when she purposely wandered away from them to frighten them.

She looked about her—at the hard but white little bed, at the few pegs on the wall, at the strip of scarlet wool by the bedside, at the bare boards of the floor, at the ebony cross over the head of the bed—and she wondered if this humble little apartment was to be hers. Then she heard the rushing voice of a brook, and she leaned out of the window to see it tumbling over the rocks in merry sport. Tired, homesick, and perplexed, she turned from the window and lay down upon the bed, still listening to the brook, till sleep came and put an end to her wonderings.

She slept heavily a long while, but was wakened by a rapping on the floor beneath.

"Come, child, come; it is time you were hungry. Wash your face outside in the brook, and we will have some dinner," called the Motherkin.

She did not dare disobey, but sullenly crept down the ladder and went out to the brook, as she had been told. The pure cold stream refreshed her, and she could have dabbled in it willingly a longer time, but again came the call:

"Come, come; it is late. Grim has to go on a journey, or I should have asked you to set the table and help me prepare the dinner; but he was in haste, and has done it all.

"What will you have, child?—brown bread and