“What happened?” they asked breathlessly.

“The garden vanished as utterly as if it were a broken soap-bubble.  Gone were the trees and the flowers; gone were the fountains and the birds; gone, too, were the jewels, the candies and the fruits.

“The place had become a huge, dreary waste, stretching as far as Klara could see into the distance.  It seemed to her as if all the trash that the world had outgrown had been dumped here—­it was so covered with heaps of old rubbish.

“Klara turned to the old lady.  She had not changed except that her cruel mouth sneered.

“Klara burst into tears.  ‘I want to go home,’ she screamed.  ’Let me go back to my mother.’

“The old lady only smiled.  ’You open that door and let me go back to my mother,’ Klara cried passionately.

“‘But I can’t open it,’ the old lady said.  ’It’s locked.  I have no keys.’

“‘Where are the keys?’ Klara asked.

“The old lady pointed to the endless heaps of rubbish.  ’There, somewhere,’ she said.

“‘I’ll find them,’ Klara screamed, ’and open that door and run back to my home.  You shan’t keep me from my own dear mother, you wicked woman.’

“‘Nobody wants to keep you,’ the old lady said.  ’You came of your own accord.  Find the keys if you want to go back.’

“That was true and Klara wisely did not answer.  But you can fancy how she regretted coming.  She began to search among the dump-heaps.  She could find no keys.  But the longer she hunted the more determined she grew.  It seemed to her that she searched for weeks and weeks.

“It was very discouraging, very dirty and very fatiguing work.  She moved always in a cloud of dust.  At times it seemed as if her back would break from bending so much.  Often she had to bite her lips to keep from screaming with rage after she had gone through a rubbish-pile as high as her head and, still, no keys.  All kinds of venomous insects stung her.  All kinds of vines and brambles scratched her.  All kinds of stickers and thistles pricked her.  Her little feet and hands bled all the time.  But still she kept at it.  After that first conversation, Klara never spoke with the old lady again.  After a few days Klara left her in the distance.  At the end of a week, the moon-door was no longer in sight when Klara looked back.

“But during all those weeks of weary work Klara had a chance to think.  She saw for the first time what a naughty little girl she had been and how she had worried the kindest mother in the world.  Her longing for her mother grew so great at times that she had to sit down and cry.  But after a while she would dry her eyes and go at the hunt with fresh determination.

“One day she caught a glint of something shining from a clump of bushes.  She had to dig and dig to get at it for about these bushes the ashes were packed down hard.  But finally she uncovered a pair of iron keys.  On one was printed in letters of gold, ‘I’M SORRY,’ on the other, ‘I’LL NEVER DO SO AGAIN.’