In the midst of this whirl of fine happenings the fairies departed. They flew to the top of the Victoria Tower, and revelled; while Bim, unblessed with powers of flight, went peacefully to sleep in Geoffrey’s breast-pocket. *CHAPTER XXI* *OBERON AT LAST* So far as the conquest of London was concerned, all was over except the shouting. June was triumphant. There was no question about that. Victory clung to her as a golden shadow. More and more elves came from Fairyland, each one increasing the area for good, and becoming a present testimony to the truth of June’s victory. Oberon was silent; as yet he made no sign--he remained far away, hunting in the valleys of obstinacy; but no other in the shadow-lands of Faerie hesitated to acknowledge the glorious truth. June’s madness--as they called it--was justified. Spring came creeping up. Nature awoke; shook off her lethargy, and cried welcome to the future. The trees were cautiously putting on raiment. Birds found their forgotten voices, and began practising anthems, preparing for the nesting season. June, touched by the hope in the air, and strengthened with the satisfaction of seeing a recovered or recovering London, was modestly confident. A human person, with such progress behind him, would have been cocksure; but the fairies know better! She showed her strength and content by an act of courage. She sent the crown back to Fairyland; Bim, as a special mark of honour, was privileged to take it. The gnome, through this great trust--so responsible, so ennobling--was rapt up to the seventeenth realm of happiness. The privilege filled him with a fine humility. He did not presume to wear the crown; he held it with reverence in his hands, and when riding his pelican homewards--June procured one for that mission from St. James’s Park--carried it carefully under his arm. He reached the Violet Valley, delivered the crown to its mystical guardians, and then, eager to give expression to his wonderful adventures, told to excited groups of immortals tales of the doings of June. His words came forth in torrents. He had so much to say. He developed unexpected powers of expression. He found himself, while detailing his epic, shining with the graces of minor poetry. Nymphs, gathering about him as he spoke, sweetened his narrative with chords struck on harps of gold and starshine. His tales were repeated by tellers a hundredfold. A fairy "Iliad" was in the making. Not a flower or frog in Elfland failed to receive a full, true, and particular account of what the fairy and gnome had experienced, and of their ultimate triumph.