“Thy mother!” said the woman, with a forecasting tone, and sprang toward her:  “Ha, thou surely canst not—­yes, indeed, indeed thou art my lost, long-lost, dear, only Mary!” She had recognized her by a little brown mole beneath the chin, as well as by her eyes and shape.  All embraced her, all were moved with joy, and the parents wept.  Mary was astonished that she almost reached to her father’s stature; and she could not understand how her mother had become so changed and faded; she asked the name of the stranger youth.  “It is our neighbor’s Andrew,” said Martin.  “How comest thou to us again, so unexpectedly, after seven long years?  Where hast thou been?  Why didst thou never send us tidings of thee?”

“Seven years!” said Mary, and could not order her ideas and recollections.  “Seven whole years?”

“Yes, yes,” said Andrew, laughing, and shaking her trustfully by the hand; “I have won the race, good Mary; I was at the pear-tree and back again seven years ago, and thou, sluggish creature, art but just returned!”

They again asked, they pressed her; but remembering her instruction, she could answer nothing.  It was they themselves chiefly that, by degrees, shaped a story for her:  How, having lost her way, she had been taken up by a coach, and carried to a strange remote part, where she could not give the people any notion of her parents’ residence; how she was conducted to a distant town, where certain worthy persons brought her up, and loved her; how they had lately died, and at length she had recollected her birthplace, and so returned.  “No matter how it is!” exclaimed her mother; “enough that we have thee again, my little daughter, my own, my all!”

Andrew waited supper, and Mary could not be at home in anything she saw.  The house seemed small and dark; she felt astonished at her dress, which was clean and simple, but appeared quite foreign; she looked at the ring on her finger, and the gold of it glittered strangely, inclosing a stone of burning red.  To her father’s question, she replied that the ring also was a present from her benefactors.

She was glad when the hour of sleep arrived, and she hastened to her bed.  Next morning she felt much more collected; she had now arranged her thoughts a little, and could better stand the questions of the people in the village, all of whom came in to bid her welcome.  Andrew was there too with the earliest, active, glad, and serviceable beyond all others.  The blooming maiden of fifteen had made a deep impression on him; he had passed a sleepless night.  The people of the castle likewise sent for Mary, and she had once more to tell her story to them, which was now grown quite familiar to her.  The old Count and his Lady were surprised at her good breeding; she was modest, but not embarrassed; she made answer courteously in good phrases to all their questions; all fear of noble persons and their equipage had passed away from her; for when she measured these halls and forms by the wonders and the high beauty she had seen with the Elves in their hidden abode, this earthly splendor seemed but dim to her, the presence of men was almost mean.  The young lords were charmed with her beauty.