“Yes, I did,” said Wendell, “really and truly. So now I’ve finished the tasks, I’m glad to say.” “Well, I must say it’s a great relief to me,” returned the Pixie. “I never do know what to do with boys when I find them belonging to me. It’s a great responsibility. I’m glad I’m not a mother.” In spite of his relief, the Pixie continued to look gloomy and to fiddle uneasily with a pencil on Wendell’s desk. At last he broke out: “Of course, I’m not doubting your word, but you know and I know that you couldn’t find a frog in the Frog Pond because there aren’t any.” “But this one really was,” said Wendell, distressed to see that the Pixie was not quite convinced that he spoke the truth. “I saw him jump in myself, and Izzy Icklebaum fished him out.” “Well, it’s very fishy! I can’t account for it,” said the Pixie. He remained in a brown study for several seconds; then a bright thought illumined his little old face. “I have it. I bet I have it. Which side did the frog jump in from?” “Why, it came jumping down the hill from the Soldiers’ Monument. When I first saw it, it was near the top of the hill.” “Of course it was!” cried the Pixie, slapping his leg. “That’s where the old Kobold lives. This is just like his work. He never had an original idea in his life.” “You mean--?” questioned Wendell. “I mean this isn’t a real frog at all. It’s a person changed into a frog--by enchantment, you know. He’s always doing it, pulling that frog stuff. Why, I can count one, two, three--seven times anyway he’s used that same spell since Cinderella’s godmother first suggested it. I should think he’d be tired of it himself.” The frog sat and blinked at them with its goggle eyes. Wendell didn’t like its stare. He began to feel uneasy. Suppose it _was_ enchanted. Suppose it should go back to its natural shape. He somehow felt sure he shouldn’t like that shape, whatever it might be. “Of course, this complicates things for you a bit,” said the Pixie briskly. “For me?” faltered Wendell. “Yes, you’ll have to break the spell, you know. You seem to forget this is your fairy story, young man.” “But how?” queried Wendell. “It seems to me this business of living in a fairy story is just nothing but getting out of the frying pan into the fire.” “Well, you wished it, you know,” said the Pixie. He uncrossed his legs, crossed them the other way, gazed around the room, hummed a little tune. He seemed to be washing his hands of all responsibility. “Sometimes if you throw a frog against a wall it will do it,” volunteered the Pixie. He spoke as if he had no interest in the matter. “Do what?” asked Wendell. “Break the spell, of course.” Wendell hated to do it. He didn’t like the frog, to be sure, but that was no reason for hurting it. However, he advanced, under the compulsion of the Pixie’s words, grasped the smooth, cold creature, and hurled it against the wall--then jumped back startled. CHAPTER VI THE STORY OF THE ENCHANTED MAIDEN