And then the stars began to twinkle, and the moon crept higher and higher up the sky. Down in the village a dog was barking. But it must have been barking in a dream, for there was nothing to bark at. "Is there anybody there?" asked the mist. But nobody answered, for nobody was there. So the mist issued forth in her bright, airy robes. She went dancing over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Then she lay quite still for a moment, and then she took to dancing again. Out over the lake she skipped and deep into the wood, where she threw her long, damp arms round the trunks of the trees. "Who are you, my friend?" asked the night-violet,[A] who stood there giving forth fragrance just to please herself. [Footnote A: An inconspicuous flower which in Denmark is very fragrant in the evening, the "night-smelling rocket" (_Hesperis tristis_).] The mist did not answer, but went on dancing. "I asked you who you were," said the night-violet. "And as you don't answer me, I conclude that you are a rude person." "I will now conclude _you_," said the mist. And then she spread herself round the night-violet, so that her petals were dashed with wet. "Oh, oh!" cried the night-violet. "Keep your fingers to yourself, my friend. I have a feeling as if I had been dipped in the pond. You have no reason for getting so angry just because I asked you who you are." The mist let go of her again. "Who am I?" she said. "You could not understand even if I told you." "Try," said the night-violet. "I am the dewdrop on the flower, the cloud in the sky, and the mist on the meadow," said the mist. "I beg your pardon," said the night-violet. "Would you mind saying that again? The dewdrop I know. It settles every morning on my leaves, and I don't think it is at all like you." "No; but it is I all the same," said the mist mournfully. "But no one knows me. I must live my life under many shapes. One time I am dew, and another time I am rain; and yet another time I babble as a clear, cool streamlet through the wood. But when I dance on the meadows in the evening, men say that it is the marsh-lady brewing." "It is a strange story," said the night-violet. "Do you mind telling it to me? The night is long, and I sometimes get a little bored by it."' "It is a sad story," answered the mist. "But you may have it and welcome." But when she was about to lie down the night-violet shook with terror in all her petals. "Be so kind as to keep at a little distance," she said, "at least till you have properly introduced yourself. I have never cared to be on familiar terms with people I don't know." So the mist lay down a little way off and began her story:--