The bath over, they turned homeward.  Miss Rachel was entertaining guests in the parlor.  Lisa had gone off for a walk.  Graham had to go home, but promised frequent visits; and as Phil was tired, Joe carried him up and laid him on his bed, putting his mosses on the table, and the water-lilies in an oblong vase which was usually filled with fragrant flowers.  The wind harp was there, too, and as Phil, with closed eyes, was resting in the half-twilight made by shut blinds, there came from it a little murmur, which grew into a long, sad monotone.  He dared not move, and would not speak, but between his eyelids, partly raised, he thought he saw the familiar little winged creature who had comforted and entertained him in his wretched city home.

“How little people know what they are doing when they pull up ferns and mosses in the woods!” said the soft voice.  “I was sleeping soundly on the nicest bed imaginable, having travelled far for just a whiff of water-lily odor that I thought might refresh a poor little hospital patient tossing with fever in the city, when with a violent wrench I found myself borne off from my sheltered and dusky resting-place, and tossed into a boat in the blinding glare of the sun.  Fortunately, I had wrapped myself in some broad grape-vine leaves, and was mistaken for a moth cocoon; else, dear Phil, I had not been here.”

“I am so glad, so very glad, to see you again!” murmured Phil, softly.

“And I am so glad you are in the country!  You could not have lived long in the city.  What are you doing now?”

“Getting well, they tell me.”

“Do you ever think of the ones who cannot do that?”

“No, I do not,” said Phil, in some surprise.

“Ah, there are so many.  I see them often—­little creatures who are friendless and helpless.  You should not forget them.”

“It is not that I forget, I do not think of them at all.  I suppose I would if I saw them.”

“Well, you must think of them, and do something for them.  Oh yes, I know you do not believe you can, but the way will come if you try.  All that I do is to whisper soft songs in their ears, or give them a little waft of summer freshness, but it sometimes stops their painful tossing, and brings sleep to their tired eyes.”

“I will think; I will try,” said Phil.

“That is right,” replied the fairy.  “Now I will call some of my friends, the flower fairies, hidden in these water-lilies, and you shall see them dance.”  She clapped her hands softly together, and out of each lily crept a tiny shape of radiant whiteness and lily-like grace, so pure, so exquisite, that they did indeed seem to be the very essence and spirit of the flower.  And now began another of those fantastic movements which Phil had before witnessed.  Now in wreaths, now apart, and again in couples, they swayed about in an ecstasy of mirth, and the wind harp gave out strains of wild and melodious sound.  They nodded to each