"I think, yes, I think," she said, "no, I _know_ that I have never wished or meant to cause suffering. If ever it has come through me, it has not been by any intention of mine." "You speak the truth. We have watched and tested you, though you knew it not," was the reply. "Now something more is asked of you. Courage!" "I'm afraid, I'm dreadfully afraid I'm not very brave," said poor Linde, all sorts of alarming ideas rushing through her brain as to what might be asked of her. Were they going to shoot _her_, possibly? Or to shut her up in the tomb with the dead, or not dead robin? "Do not look so terrified," said the robin. "More shall not be asked of you than you can do. We are not a revengeful race, as you well know. We have always been faithful and loving friends to human beings. You know the story of----" "Of the Babes in the Wood," interrupted Linde. "Of course I do. It was partly that, that made me think of you, about _leaves_, you know," and her face brightened. "I will try to be brave," she added. "That is right," said the bird. "Some expiation _must_ be made for that boy's evil deed, and, as I have already told you, it was decreed that the one to offer it must be a child entirely innocent of cruelty or unkindness. For this, _you_, little Linde, have been chosen. Three nights hence the fifty years come to an end--the moment for the spell to be broken will arrive. Before midnight, you must be here, standing on this very spot, where you now see me." Linde started. Had she shut her eyes for an instant?--what had happened to them? For, to her amazement, the rose-bush was no longer there! The robin stood on the grass, in the centre of the cleared circle. Yet she had not seen the disappearance, nor heard the faintest rustle! "Oh dear," she thought, "magic doings are very queer. There _was_ a rose-bush there, I am quite certain," but she said nothing. Some instinct told her it was best to take things calmly, and to listen attentively to the robin's instructions. "Where you now see me," he went on, "till you hear the clock strike twelve." "The clock," Linde repeated. "There's no clock here in the middle of the wood." "Indeed," said the robin. "Would you like to know the time at the present moment?" "Yes," Linde replied. "I suppose it's nearly four o'clock." "Listen," whispered the bird, and as she obeyed, there fell on her ears the prettiest bell-like chimes she had ever heard. "One, two, three--" on to twenty, then a pause and in deeper tones, "one, two, three, four." "Twenty minutes to four," said her friend. "If it had been _past_ four, the four would have struck first. All _our_ clocks are what your clumsy human watchmakers call 'repeaters,' you see." "And what do you do to make them tell you the time?" asked the little girl eagerly. "You just say 'What o'clock is it?' That is of course if you are at one of the entrances to fairyland. You can generally find one if you look about. They are always in the centre of a ring."