He ate it with beaming looks, that became gradually more gloomy, and were very blank indeed by the time he had finished. “It hasn’t got no taste at all!” he complained. “I couldn’t feel nuffin in my mouf! It’s a—what’s that hard word, Sylvie?” “It was a _Phlizz_,” Sylvie gravely replied. “Are they _all_ like that, father?” “They’re all like that to _you_, darling, because you don’t belong to Elfland—yet. But to _me_ they are real.” Bruno looked puzzled. “I’ll try anuvver kind of fruits!” he said, and jumped down off the King’s knee. “There’s some lovely striped ones, just like a rainbow!” And off he ran. Meanwhile the Fairy-King and Sylvie were talking together, but in such low tones that I could not catch the words: so I followed Bruno, who was picking and eating other kinds of fruit, in the vain hope of finding _some_ that had a taste. I tried to pick some myself—but it was like grasping air, and I soon gave up the attempt and returned to Sylvie. “Look well at it, my darling,” the old man was saying, “and tell me how you like it.” “It’s just _lovely_,” cried Sylvie, delightedly. “Bruno, come and look!” And she held up, so that he might see the light through it, a heart-shaped Locket, apparently cut out of a single jewel, of a rich blue colour, with a slender gold chain attached to it. “It are welly pretty,” Bruno more soberly remarked: and he began spelling out some words inscribed on it. “All—will—love—Sylvie,” he made them out at last. “And so they doos!” he cried, clasping his arms round her neck. “_Everybody_ loves Sylvie!” “But _we_ love her best, don’t we, Bruno?” said the old King, as he took possession of the Locket. “Now, Sylvie, look at _this_.” And he showed her, lying on the palm of his hand, a Locket of a deep crimson colour, the same shape as the blue one and, like it, attached to a slender golden chain. “Lovelier and lovelier!” exclaimed Sylvie, clasping her hands in ecstasy. “Look, Bruno!” “And there’s words on this one, too,” said Bruno. “Sylvie—will—love—all.” “Now you see the difference,” said the old man: “different colours and different words. Choose one of them, darling. I’ll give you whichever you like best.” [Illustration: THE CRIMSON LOCKET] Sylvie whispered the words, several times over, with a thoughtful smile, and then made her decision. “It’s _very_ nice to be loved,” she said: “but it’s nicer to love other people! May I have the red one, Father?” The old man said nothing: but I could see his eyes fill with tears, as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long loving kiss. Then he undid the chain, and showed her how to fasten it round her neck, and to hide it away under the edge of her frock. “It’s for you to _keep_, you know,” he said in a low voice, “not for other people to _see_. You’ll remember how to use it?” “Yes, I’ll remember,” said Sylvie. “And now, darlings, it’s time for you to go back, or they’ll be missing you, and then that poor Gardener will get into trouble!”