'Patience, patience,--it will be found. I know as yet no particulars,--but I shall soon find it. I have toiled for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it life shall be one perpetual autumn day--blue air above and blue mists all round,--only no falling leaves shall rustle, no twigs shall snap, no raindrops patter, the shadows shall not change, the sun-gold on the tree-tops shall not fade. What seems to us now to be light shall be darkness; what seems to us now to be joy shall be woe by comparison, to those who read that book! Ay! I know this much, and some day I shall find it.' The Wood-Sprite raised his eyebrows very much and laid his finger on his lips. 'Wistik, if you could but teach me----' Johannes began; but before he could say more he felt a strong gust of wind and saw a great, broad black shroud overhead, which silently and swiftly swept by. When he looked for Wistik again he saw one little foot just vanishing into the hollow tree. Whisk! the sprite had leapt into his cave, book and all. The candles burnt paler and paler and suddenly went out. Those were very strange little candles. 'What was that?' asked Johannes, clinging in terror to Windekind in the darkness. 'An owl,' said Windekind. Then they were both silent for some time. Presently Johannes said:-- 'Do you believe what Wistik said?' 'Wistik is not so wise as he thinks himself. He will never find such a book, nor you either.' 'But does it exist?' 'It exists, as your shadow exists, Johannes. However fast you run, however cautiously you seize it, you can never overtake it or hold it. And at last you discover that you are trying to catch yourself. Do not be foolish; forget the sprite's chatter. I can tell you a hundred finer tales. Come along! We will go to the outskirts of the wood and see how our good father draws off the white woollen coverlets of dew from the sleeping meadows. Come.' Johannes went; but he did not understand Windekind's words, nor did he follow his counsel. And while he watched the dawn of the glorious autumn morning, he was meditating over the book in which it is written why everything is as it is, and repeating to himself in a low tone, 'Wistik!' VI It seemed to him, all the next few days, as though it was no longer so delightful or so beautiful to be with Windekind in the wood or on the sand-hills. His thoughts were no onger wholly occupied with all that Windekind told him or showed him. He could not help thinking of that Book, but he dared not speak of it. The things he saw seemed to him less fine and wonderful than before. The clouds were so black and heavy, he was afraid lest they should fall upon him. It distressed him when the unresting autumn wind shook and bowed the poor weary trees, so that the sallow under side of the leaves was seen, and yellow leaves and dry twigs were swept before the gale.