"You must not do that; they would not believe you even if you did. What would be the use of it?" "I want my little key--under the rose-bush. Do you know how to find it?" "Yes, indeed! Near the pond, is it not? Yes, I know." "Then take me to it, Wistik." Wistik climbed up to Johannes' shoulder, and pointed out the way. They walked the whole day long. The wind blew, and now and then showers fell; but at evening the clouds ceased driving, and lengthened themselves out into long bands of gray and gold. When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!" There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves. Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose. "Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it." "I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key--I didn't." The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground. But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers--even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was. "Oh! where is it? Where is it?" "Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it--that is always the way with human beings!" He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass. Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush. "Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?" "We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush. That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind. "Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot--cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings." He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid, heavy fragrance. "I cannot turn back now, nor ever see Robinetta again. Shall I not die without her? Shall I keep on living, and be a man--a man like those who laughed at me?"