When it was known that Iduna had disappeared from her grove, there were many sorrowful faces in Asgard, and anxious voices were heard inquiring for her. Loki walked about with as grave a face, mid asked as many questions, as any one else; but he had a secret fear that became stronger every day, that now, at last, the consequence of his evil ways would find him out. Days passed on, and the looks of care, instead of wearing away, deepened on the faces of the Æsir. They met, and looked at each other, and turned away sighing; each saw that some strange change was creeping over all the others, and none liked to be the first to speak of it. It came on very gradually—a little change every day, and no day ever passing without the change. The leaves of the trees in Iduna’s grove deepened in color. They first became a somber green, then a glowing red, and, at last, a pale brown; and when the brisk winds came and blew them about, they moved every day more languidly. “Let us alone,” they said at length. “We are tired, tired, tired.” The winds, surprised, carried the new sound to Gladsheim, and whispered it all round the banquet-hall where the Æsir sat, and then they rushed back again, and blew all through the grove. “We are tired,” said the leaves again; “we are tired, we are old; we are going to die;” and at the word they broke from the trees one by one, and fluttered to the ground, glad to rest anywhere; and the winds, having nothing else to do, went back to Gladsheim with the last strange word they had learned. The Æsir were all assembled in Valhalla; but there were no stories told, and no songs sung. No one spoke much but Loki, and he was that day in a talking humor. He moved from one to another, whispering an unwelcome word in every ear. “Have you noticed your mother Frigga?” he said to Baldur. “Do you see how white her hair is growing, and what a number of deep lines are printed on her face?” Then he turned to Frey. “Look at your sister Freya and your friend Baldur,” he said, “as they sit opposite to us. What a change has come over them lately! Who would think that that pale man and that faded woman were Baldur the beautiful and Freya the fair?” “You are tired—you are old—you are going to die,” moaned the winds, wandering all round the great halls, and coming in and out of the hundred doorways, and all the Æsir looked up at the sad sound. Then they saw, for the first time, that a new guest had seated herself that day at the table of the Æsir. There could be no question of her fitness on the score of royalty, for a crown rested on her brow, and in her hand she held a scepter; but the fingers that grasped the scepter were white and fleshless, and under the crown looked the threatening face of Hela, half corpse, half queen.