"Thank you for that," rejoined the hare. "It is not often that I get an audience which can appreciate me, and you know yourself that a bit of praise helps wonderfully to make one do his best." "'Tis so," said Shamus. "A word of praise is meat and drink to one who sings--or dances," he added remembering the hare. Shamus told the hare of the King of the Little People and the good things at his court. "Belike he'd have a bit of a carrot or a patch of good clover," said the hare wistfully. "That he would," Shamus returned heartily. "Come with me and I'll show you." "I'll do it," said the hare, and off they went to the King of the Little People. "You have done all that I asked," said the King, "and do you still wish to return to the world?" "It is my fate to do so," said Shamus. "So be it," said the King, "but long will you lament the day. It is easier to go than to return. However, I'm not saying that some day you may not come back to me, for I like you well." The King gave Shamus the magic goblet and ordered that he be borne from Elfland, and Shamus returned to the world. With the goblet in his pocket and his harp slung over his shoulder, he made his way to the court of the King and the Princess. On the throne sat an old woman, and the faces of those around were strange to him. "Who are you?" she asked. Shamus told her the story of his wanderings and produced the goblet. "Where is the Princess?" he inquired. At these words the old Queen upon the throne burst into loud weeping. "Long have you been gone, Shamus," said she. "It is seven times seven years since you left me. And now I am old, and you are as you were. It is too late!" To Shamus, the time passed in Elfland had been no more than a year, and his heart was sorrowful as he turned away without a word. "Belike my father is dead," said he as he bent his steps toward home. There he also found new faces and was given the word that his father had been dead this many a year. In sorrow Shamus turned away, making sad songs to comfort his heart. Thus he wandered through the world, finding no place where he could rest. His songs were sad and all who heard them wept, but he was not unhappy, for there is a certain pleasure in even a sad song. Yet always he longed for Elfland and the ways of the Little People, and the sound of the bell on the magic dog, whose chime brings forgetfulness of all sorrow. Try as he would, he could never find the way, and he knew that it was because his songs were sad and he was no longer young at heart. Older he grew with white hair and feeble step, and one day he was weary and sat himself down in a wood to rest. He sat there, thinking of his lost youth and the sad ways of the world, longing to die.