“I don’t understand that at all!” said little Gerda.

“That’s my story,” said the Lily.

What says the Convolvulus?

“Over the narrow road looms an old knightly castle; thickly the ivy grows over the crumbling red walls, leaf by leaf up to the balcony, where stands a beautiful girl; she bends over the balustrade and glances up the road.  No rose on its branch is fresher than she; no apple blossom wafted onward by the wind floats more lightly along.  How her costly silks rustle!  ‘Comes he not yet?’”

“Is it Kay whom you mean?” asked little Gerda.

“I’m only speaking of a story—­my dream,” replied the Convolvulus.

What said the little Snowdrop?

“Between the trees a long board hangs by ropes; that is a swing.  Two pretty little girls, with clothes white as snow and long green silk ribbons on their hats, are sitting upon it, swinging.  Their brother, who is greater than they, stands in the swing, and has slung his arm round the rope to hold himself, for in one hand he has a little saucer, and in the other a clay pipe.  He is blowing bubbles.  The swing flies, and the bubbles rise with beautiful, changing colors; the last still hangs from the pipe bowl, swaying in the wind.  The swing flies on; the little black dog, light as the bubbles, stands up on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into the swing:  it flies on, and the dog falls, barks, and grows angry, for he is teased, and the bubble bursts.  A swinging board and a bursting bubble—­that is my song.”

“It may be very pretty, what you’re telling, but you speak it so mournfully, and you don’t mention little Kay at all.”

[Illustration:  “He is blowing bubbles”]

What do the Hyacinths say?

“There were three beautiful sisters, transparent and delicate.  The dress of one was red, that of the second blue, and that of the third quite white; hand in hand they danced by the calm lake in the bright moonlight.  They were not elves; they were human beings.  It was so sweet and fragrant there!  The girls disappeared in the forest, and the sweet fragrance became stronger:  three coffins, with three beautiful maidens lying in them, glided from the wood-thicket across the lake; the glowworms flew gleaming about them like little hovering lights.  Are the dancing girls sleeping, or are they dead?  The flower scent says they are dead, and the evening bell tolls their knell.”

“You make me quite sorrowful,” said little Gerda.  “You scent so strongly, I cannot help thinking of the dead maidens.  Ah! is little Kay really dead?  The Roses have been down in the earth, and they say he is not.”

“Kling! klang!” tolled the Hyacinth bells.  “We are not tolling for little Kay—­we don’t know him; we only sing our song, the only one we know.”

And Gerda went to the Buttercup, gleaming forth from the green leaves.

“You are a little bright sun,” said Gerda.  “Tell me, if you know, where I may find my companion.”