"Oh yes, yes!" she exclaimed. "The leaves mean everything to us. Not only food and clothing, but a home--a home for us two together, instead of terrible separation. Oh Robin, darling, may I gather the flowers and dry the leaves, ready for the market? I'd come any day--or every day, to fetch them, and oh how grateful we should be," and the tears rushed to her eyes in her eagerness. But the redbreast's tone grew grave, and Linde began to tremble with fear that he would say it could not be. But when he spoke again his words surprised her. "Do you know the story of the forest?" he asked. "Yes--some part of it, at least. We know that--that--" for she felt his bright eyes fixed upon her, and it made her hesitate, "something very sad happened, and since then, no robins ever come here," she murmured. "Sad--yes indeed," he repeated, "and worse than sad. Wicked, cruel! A monster in the shape of a boy shot one of our favoured tribe, deservedly favoured, for, as a Christian child you know since when, we have been honoured for our faithful service?" Linde bowed her head reverently. "I know," she whispered. "It was very wicked of the boy. But it was a long time ago," she went on. "Can't you forgive it, and come back to the forest again?" "'Tis almost fifty years ago," the robin said. "And for fifty years the place has been under the ban. Our queen--call her fairy queen, or guardian angel as best pleases you--pronounced it. But around the tomb of the innocent victim," and he pointed downwards, "she planted the rose-trees, of whose flowers by special favour the old godmother, of whom you have heard, was allowed to gather a few. For she it was who found our poor brother--here on this very spot--and summoned us to his side. Our ancestor, I should call him, for it was long ago, and our bird lives are very short--so surely they should not be cut still shorter?" "Surely not," said Linde. "Then are those the leaves we had in our jar? I thought it was a powder--a fairy powder that the godmother bequeathed?" "So it was. She dried and ground the precious leaves, and with the powder perfumed the petals of her own garden roses, every year, so long as she lived. But she never re-visited the spot. It has been closed ever since the day when, the arrow still transfixing his tender body, the robin was buried, though not dead." "Not dead," cried Linde. "What can you mean?" "That was the decree," he replied. "For fifty years he was to lie here, till the forest could be purified from the pollution of cruelty." "And how can that be done?" Linde asked eagerly. "By the hands of a maiden--a child-maiden, who never, _never_ has been guilty of cruelty to any living thing. Linde, are you that maiden?" The little girl was silent. Then she looked up, and her blue eyes did not falter beneath the piercing gaze of the bird.