A little girl, smaller still than Paul, in a pink-flowered frock, round which a kind of Scotch sash was tied, appeared before the house. She had long, golden curls, which were drawn back from her forehead by a round comb, and a small, delicate little nose, which she carried rather high. “Do you wish to speak to mamma?” she asked in her gentle, soft voice, and smiled at the same time. “Are you called Elsbeth, my child?” inquired his mother, in return. “Yes; I am called Elsbeth.” His mother made a movement as if she wanted to clasp the strange child in her arms, but she mastered herself, and said, “Will you lead us to your mother?” “Mamma is in the garden; she is just drinking coffee,” said the little girl, with much importance. “I would rather lead you round the front of the house, because if we open the door on the sunny side so many flies come in directly.” His mother smiled. Paul wondered that this had never struck him at home. “She is much cleverer than you are,” he thought. Now they entered the garden. It was much larger and more beautiful than the one at Mussainen, but there was nothing to be seen of a sundial. Paul had formed a vague idea of it as a great golden tower, on which a round, sparkling disk of the sun formed the dial-plate. “Where is the sundial, mamma?” he asked. “I will show it to you afterwards,” said the little girl, eagerly. From the arbor came a tall, slender lady, with a pale, delicate face, on which shone an inexpressibly sweet smile. His mother gave a cry, and threw herself on her breast, sobbing loudly. “Thank God that I have you with me once again!” said the stranger, and kissed his mother on her brow and cheeks. “Believe me, all will now be well; you will tell me what weighs upon your mind, and it will be strange if I cannot help you.” His mother dried her eyes and smiled. “Oh, this is pure joy,” she said; “I feel already so relieved and happy because I am near you. I have longed for you so much.” “And could you really not come?” His mother shook her head sadly. “Poor woman!” said the lady, and both looked for a long time into each other’s eyes. “And this, I suppose, is my godchild?” the lady exclaimed, pointing towards Paul, who clung to his mother’s dress and sucked his thumb. “Oh, fie! take your finger from your mouth,” said his mother. And the beautiful, kind lady took him on her lap, gave him a teaspoonful of honey--“as a sort of foretaste,” she said--and asked him after his little sisters, about school, and all sorts of other things which it was not at all difficult to answer, so that at last he almost felt comfortable on her lap. “And what things do you know already, you little man?” she asked him at last. “I can whistle,” he answered, proudly. The kind woman laughed heartily, and said, “Well, then, whistle us something.” He pointed his lips and tried to whistle, but the sound would not come; he had forgotten it again.