He made his way into the very centre of the group.

“Gauzita!” he said.  He thought, of course, she would drop right off her lily stem; but she didn’t.  She simply stopped swinging a moment, and stared at him.

“Gracious!” she exclaimed.  “And who are you?”

“Who am I?” cried Mr. Goodfellow, severely.  “Don’t you remember me?”

“No,” she said, coolly; “I don’t, not in the least.”

Robin Goodfellow almost gasped for breath.  He had never met with anything so outrageous in his life.

“You don’t remember me?” he cried. “Me!  Why, it’s impossible!”

“Is it?” said Gauzita, with a touch of dainty impudence.  “What’s your name?”

Robin Goodfellow was almost paralyzed.  Gauzita took up a midget of an eyeglass which she had dangling from a thread of a gold chain, and she stuck it in her eye and tilted her impertinent little chin and looked him over.  Not that she was near-sighted—­not a bit of it; it was just one of her tricks and manners.

“Dear me!” she said, “you do look a trifle familiar.  It isn’t, it can’t be, Mr. ——­, Mr. ——­,” then she turned to the adorer, who held her fan, “it can’t be Mr. ——­, the one who was changed into a robin, you know,” she said.  “Such a ridiculous thing to be changed into!  What was his name?”

“Oh, yes!  I know whom you mean.  Mr. ——­, ah—­Goodfellow!” said the fairy with the fan.

“So it was,” she said, looking Robin over again.  “And he has been pecking at trees and things, and hopping in and out of nests ever since, I suppose.  How absurd!  And we have been enjoying ourselves so much since he went away!  I think I never did have so lovely a time as I have had during these last two years.  I began to know you,” she added, in a kindly tone, “just about the time he went away.”

“You have been enjoying yourself?” almost shrieked Robin Goodfellow.

“Well,” said Gauzita, in unexcusable slang, “I must smile.”  And she did smile.

“And nobody has pined away and died?” cried Robin.

“I haven’t,” said Gauzita, swinging herself and ringing her bells again.  “I really haven’t had time.”

Robin Goodfellow turned around and rushed out of the group.  He regarded this as insulting.  He went back to Fairyfoot in such a hurry that he tripped on his sword and fell, and rolled over so many times that Fairyfoot had to stop him and pick him up.

“Is she dead?” asked Fairyfoot.

“No,” said Robin; “she isn’t.”

He sat down on a small mushroom and clasped his hands about his knees and looked mad—­just mad.  Angry or indignant wouldn’t express it.

“I have a great mind to go and be a misanthrope,” he said.

“Oh!  I wouldn’t,” said Fairyfoot.  He didn’t know what a misanthrope was, but he thought it must be something unpleasant.

“Wouldn’t you?” said Robin, looking up at him.