'Because you suddenly understood,' was the silvery, tiny answer. 'When you understand, you bring everything into yourself, small as a toy. It is size that bewilders. Men make size. Fairy things, like stars and tenderness, are always small.' 'Of course,' he said; 'as if I didn't know it already!' 'Besides,' she laughed, half closing her brilliant eyes and peering at him mischievously, 'I like everything so tiny that you can find it inside a shell. That makes it possible to do big things.' 'Am _I_ too big---?' he exclaimed, aware of clumsiness before this exquisite daintiness. 'A little confused, that's all,' her laughter rippled. 'You want smoothing down. I'll see to that.' He had the feeling, as she said it, that his being included the entire Pattern, even to its most distant edges where it fastened on to the rim of the universe. From this huge sensation, he came back swiftly to its tiny correspondence again. His eyes turned to study her. But she seemed transparent somehow, so that he saw the sky behind her, and in it, strangely enough--just behind her face--the distant Pleiades, shining faintly with their tender lustre. They reached down into her little being, it seemed, as though she emanated from them. Big Aldebaran guided strongly from behind. For an instant he lost sight of the actual figure, seeing in its place a radiant efflorescence, purified as by some spiritual fire--the Spirit of a Star. 'I'm here, quite close beside you,' whispered the tiny voice. 'Don't let your sight get troublesome like your size. Inside-sight, remember, is the thing!' He turned, or rather he focused sight again to find her. He was startled a little. For a moment it seemed like his own voice speaking deep down within himself. 'Make yourself at home,' it continued, 'you belong here--almost as much as I do.' And at the sound of her voice all the perplexities of his life lay down. It brushed him smooth, like a wind that sets rough feathers all one way, He remembered again where he was, and what was going on. 'I do,' he answered, happy as a boy. 'I am at home. It is perfect.' 'Do you, indeed! You speak as though this story were your own!' And her laugh was like the tinkle of hare-bells in the wind. 'It is,' he said; 'at least I had--I _have_, rather, a considerable hand in the making of it.' 'Possibly,' she answered, 'but the story belongs to the person who first started it. And that person is myself. The story is mine really!' 'Yours!' he gasped. 'Because--I am the story!' He stared hard to find the face that said this thing. Thought stopped dead a moment, blocked by a marvel that was impossible, yet true. 'You mean---?' he stammered. 'You heard perfectly what I said; you understood it, too. There's no good pretending,' impatience as well as laughter in the little voice. 'I am the story,--the story that you love.'