Almost it seemed a pity to destroy the plants. One little worker asked Eline of this matter for he loved the flowers and was sorry to see them gathered and dried. “Does it not hurt the flowers to pluck them?” he asked. “Some say that you can talk with them as with all living things, and you can tell if the flowers do not suffer in the gathering, although they are old and ripe.” His was a loving heart and Eline saw that he asked this out of no mere curiosity. Gently she touched his forehead with her finger. “Look!” she said. “Look and listen, for I have opened the seeing eye to you.” VIII And the boy looked around in wonderment, amazed, and saw that the whole great plain was full of teeming life which he had not before seen. Fairies and elves peeped from every flower, gnomes and earthmen worked and played and danced among the boulders. And where before was silence but for the rustling of the leaves in the breeze, there rose a murmur of many voices, like the humming of bees in the sunshine. The boy listened and at once he knew what the flowers were whispering. “There is a saying that the flax-people are being used for a mighty work,” said one little blue fairy to another. “I heard a bee spreading the news,” said another. “All the flax-people are asked to give their dresses to help in clearing the plain for a palace and a garden where kings may dwell—not kings of earth and of little cities, but kings of wisdom whom nature loves to obey, and we among her children.” “Body after body have I grown,” said the other. “I have struggled and striven to grow useful in this glorious brotherhood of nature, and my only success seems to be that I have a pretty head. It is good to be beautiful, perhaps, but I have always thought that I would sacrifice my beauty for a chance of sharing in noble deeds.” A butterfly that had stopped to listen now spoke to her: “You have waited and now you will have your reward. For surely your body will be taken to help in the work that is going forward. The flax-people have indeed lived to good purpose.” “They certainly do not seem afraid to die,” said the boy to himself. And as if in answer to his whispered thought the little flax-fairy said: “Of course we are not afraid! I have been told that there are giants of men who really think that when they leave their worn-out stalks—bodies they call them—behind, they live no more, or at least are not sure what becomes of themselves. But it cannot be true—it must be a fairy story!” laughed the little elf. “They must know, as we know, that all things sleep awhile and then take new bodies like dresses woven while they worked in their last awaking which men call life. And then one day we know that we shall have woven dresses so fine that we shall be free to leave them as the butterfly leaves his dull-hued robes and spreads his bright wings for flight into the grand unknown which we all long to know.”