"Something the doctors give when children are pale and thin, and do not have enough fresh air. I don't pretend to know what it means, but I often go to see sick children in hospitals, and so I hear about such things." "Hark! is that my wind harp?--why, it sounds like water dropping and gurgling over stones." "It is the song of a mountain brook that my friends are singing as they dance over your harp. Look!" Phil looked, and saw the flock of fairies like white butterflies swarming again over his harp, and heard the soft, sweet singing which kept time to their steps. "Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!" said Phil. "When you hear a brook singing, you must remember us," said the fairy. "Indeed I will; but I am afraid I shall never hear one: only the hoarse cries of the street and the rumbling of wagons come to me here." "Ah, better times are coming; then you will not need us." Phil lay still in his chair, listening intently; the white figures glanced in shadowy indistinctness across the window, only the starry ray from each little brow lighting their dance. They swept up and down, and swayed like flowers in a breeze, and still the little clear notes of their song fell like dripping water in cool cascades. Now it flowed smoothly and softly, again it seemed to dash and foam among pebbly nooks. "Does it rest you? are you better?" asked the one little fairy who did all the talking. "Oh, so much!" said Phil. After a while the song stopped, and the fairies drew all together in a cluster, and were quite still. "What does that mean?" asked Phil. "They are disturbed; there is a storm coming. We shall have to return." "I am so sorry! I wanted to know more about you, and to see what you wear." "Mortals must not approach us too nearly. We may draw near to you. See, I will stand before you." "You seem to be all moonshine," said Phil. "Yes," said the fairy, laughing merrily; "these robes of ours are of mountain mist, spangled with star-dust so fine that it makes us only glisten. We have to wear the lightest sort of fabric, so that we are not hindered in our long flights." "Do you know flower fairies?" "Yes; but we are of a very different race. I suppose you thought we dressed in rose-leaves and rode on humble-bees, but we do not; we are more--now for a long word--more ethereal." And again the fairy laughed. "Ether means air," said Phil, quite proudly. "Do you know any fairy stories?" he asked. "Yes; shall I tell you one next time I come?" "Oh do, please. So you _will_ come again." "Yes, if I can. Now I must go. I thought I heard distant thunder. We must fly so fast--so fast! Good-bye--good-bye." There was a long rumbling of thunder far off in the distance, and a cooler air in the hot, close room. Phil lay and dreamed, wondering how long it took the wind fairies to reach their home. Then the sweet, spicy odors came to him again, and he lifted the languid flowers Miss Schuyler had brought him, and put them in his glass of water.