'It is all your fault!' said Johannes. 'Leave me in peace.' 'What took you to talk with men? Men can never understand you. Why do you tell men such things? It is most foolish.' 'They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are detestable creatures! I hate them.' 'No, Johannes; you love them.' 'No, no!' 'If you did not, it would not vex you so much to find yourself different from them; it could not matter to you what they say. You must learn to care less.' 'I want my key. I want to show it to them.' 'You must not do that; and they would not even then believe you. Of what use would it be?' 'I want my little key from under the rose-bush. Do you know where to find it?' 'Yes, certainly; by the pool you mean? Yes, I know it.' 'Then take me there, Wistik.' Wistik clambered up on Johannes's shoulder and showed him the way. They went on and on, all the day; the wind blew, and heavy rain fell from time to time, but towards evening the clouds ceased driving, and packed into long grey and gold bars. When they reached the sand-hills which Johannes knew so well, his heart was sad within him, and he whispered again and again, 'Windekind, Windekind!' There was the rabbit-hole, and the sand-hill where he had fallen asleep. The grey reindeer-moss was soft and damp, and did not crack under his feet. The roses were all over, and the yellow evening-primroses with their faint oppressive scent opened their cups by hundreds. Higher yet grew the tall mulleins with their thick woolly leaves. Johannes looked carefully to espy the small russet leaves of the wild rose. 'Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it.' 'I know nothing of it,' said Wistik. 'You buried the key, not I.' Where the rose-tree had stood there was a plot covered with yellow Oenotheras staring heedlessly at the sky. Johannes questioned them, and the mullein too; but they were much too proud, for their tall stems rose far above his head; so he asked the little three-coloured pansies on the sandy ground. However, no one knew anything of the wild rose. They were all new-comers this summer, even the mullein, arrogant and tall as it was. 'Oh! where is it? where is it?' 'Have you too deceived me?' cried Wistik. 'I expected it; it is always so with men.' And he let himself slip down from Johannes's shoulder, and ran away among the broom. Johannes looked about him in despair--there stood a tiny wild rose-bush. 'Where is the big rose-bush?' asked Johannes; 'the big one which used to stand here?' 'We never talk with human creatures,' said the shrub. That was the last thing he heard; everything remained silent. Only the broom-shrubs sighed in the light evening breeze. 'Am I then a man?' thought Johannes. 'No! it cannot be, it cannot be! I will not be a man! I hate men!' He was tired and sick at heart. He lay down at the edge of the meadow, on the soft grey moss which gave out a strong, damp scent.