Now, of the race of Gnomes there was one apart. He was a queer little fellow, the oldest, the ugliest, and the crookedest of them all. His face was wrinkled like a brown walnut; and his little misshapen body was bent under a hump which was the biggest part of him. But his mind was not evil. He was quite harmless and mild and lazy, and he hated the dire doings of his fellows who would neither mind their own business nor leave him to his. For centuries things went on from bad to worse in the Great Fear. At last the Old Gnome could bear it no longer. "I am very old and tired," he said. "It is almost time for me to curl up in the long sleep. But I cannot sleep here! I should have bad dreams. I will leave the Great Fear, which owes none of its name to me. I will go and become a Hermit, as men say." So spoke the queer little Gnome. And one bright noon when all the other Gnomes were dreaming with shut eyes,--for they hated the daylight,--he stumbled away as fast as his crooked little legs could take him south from the Great Fear. Now, beyond this was a meadow, which was the borderland across which human folk dared not approach the haunt of the Gnomes. And beyond the meadow again was an Ancient Wood, which, though he did not know it, was on the outskirts of Derrydown. Thither the Old Gnome betook himself, and found it very good indeed. Like the Great Fear it was dense and shadowy and cool. In places it was very dark. But there was scarcely a spot whence you could not, when the sun shone, catch speckled gleams of gold upon the moss; or, when the moon beamed, spy a wealth of filtered silver. For the Ancient Wood was intersected hither and yon by paths of the woodchoppers. And sun and moon love to peer down through the man-made windows in the green roof of trees and beautify the ways which human feet have trod. The Old Gnome peered and pried about the Ancient Wood, seeking a hermitage. At last he came upon the hollow stump of a tree, hidden in a clump of feathery fern. It was thatched with green lichens without, and carpeted within in a mossy pattern of green and gray and scarlet. Little hard mushrooms, growing shelf-wise one above another, made a winding staircase up to the doorway. Portieres of finest spider-wrought tapestry swayed before door and window and draped the dark-hued walls; while across one corner hung a hammock of heavier web, the very thing for a weary Gnome's resting-place. As soon as the Old Gnome spied this stump he cried,--"Ha! This is the spot for me! Here will I make my hermitage. And when the time comes for my long sleep, here will I rest forever." For you must know that the Gnomes do not die, being immortal like the Fays; but unlike them growing older and dryer and drowsier until they are fit only for eternal sleep.