“What kind of things?” “Oh, all kinds. But you haven’t washed your face with May-dew yet, have you?” “No.” “Because that would spoil it. Give me your hand, and I’ll take you back there behind the waterfall.” “Oh,” said Merrimeg. “I couldn’t--I--” “Come along. Back of the waterfall I’ll show you lots of things. Hold my hand tight. That’s right. Here we go.” She pulled Merrimeg along to the waterfall. “Stoop down,” she said, and pulled Merrimeg head-foremost into it. The water pounded on Merrimeg’s back, and she gasped for breath. The next moment she was through on the other side. “Oh!” she cried. “I mustn’t! I must go back!” “Please do come along with me,” said Myrma, and held her hand tight. It was pitch dark. Merrimeg was rather frightened, but she was very curious too. She let herself be led onward, and in a few moments they began to go down hill. For a long, long time they walked down hill, in the pitch dark. The way became steeper and steeper. “I’m afraid,” whispered Merrimeg. “Why, it’s perfectly safe,” said Myrma. “I only hope nobody’ll come to the brook while I’m away.” They were deep, deep down in the earth when they stopped. Myrma seemed to push against something, and in a moment a door opened, and she drew Merrimeg through. On the other side--really, it didn’t seem possible there could be such a place, so deep underground. It was a long and beautiful valley, with a blue roof high overhead, exactly like the sky. A road ran down the valley between meadows all spangled with daisies and buttercups. The light that spread everywhere was the soft light of early morning. Here and there in the meadows were blossoming trees, a lovely mass of pink and white. The scent of honeysuckle came on the cool breeze. “Isn’t it lovely!” said Merrimeg. “Of course,” said Myrma. “It’s always lovely in springtime. I think he’ll be here in a minute.” “Who?” said Merrimeg. “Old Porringer. He runs the stage-coach. He ought to be here by this time--Here he comes!” Down the road came a little glass coach, drawn by a pair of tiny white ponies. On the coachman’s seat was a little old man with a white beard. “Whoa!” he piped up, and drew in the ponies. Merrimeg laughed at the sight of this little coach, made all of glass, and the cunning little ponies, and the funny little old coachman. “Anything to laugh at?” said the old coachman, sitting up straight. “Never mind, Porringer,” said Myrma. “We want to take a trip with you.” “Where do you want to stop?” said Old Porringer. “At number fifteen, number thirty-five, and number eighty,” said Myrma. “Jump in then,” said Old Porringer, and flourished his little whip. Myrma opened the door of the glass coach, and the two little girls got in and sat down. The ponies pranced, the coachman touched them up with his whip, and away they went at a smart trot down the road. Merrimeg laughed with glee. “_Now_ aren’t you glad you came with me?” said Myrma.