Long was the voyage and lonely; for the seas ran high and all was dark below in the heart of the ship. Nine months they sailed on the ocean, until in the time appointed land appeared. Strange dwellings were there, domes and spires and crowded cities. With wide, wondering eyes Eline watched them as the ship passed them by in strange procession; for the men of that land were like none she knew; none of these things could she remember. For she had forgotten even her name at the river of forgetfulness, where remembrances are left in the mirror of the waters until time and their creator bring them back to life. It seemed as though one of wise and kindly countenance held her as a little child in his arms and whispered softly, “Remember! I will return! I will! I will!” A light of happy recollection came to her and she smiled in reply. He had spoken in her own language as the harp had spoken, and strangely, strangely she seemed to see in him the harper whose music had told her of the sorrowful land beyond the sunset. For this moment, she remembered, and then the thought departed. At first the air seemed heavy and oppressive to the wanderer; but by degrees she grew accustomed to it and even, in time, scarcely felt it. Yet ever and again a dim remembrance of brighter, purer skies came to her. She spoke of this more than once; but others only laughed and said: “The child is dreaming!” [Illustration] Because she was no longer dressed in shining garments, they did not know her for the princess she really was. Indeed, she was no way different from those around her but that at heart she was still the daughter of the king. They could not see her heart—this they could not know. And seeing that they did not understand, she said no more of the thoughts that came to her. They called it dreaming; but Eline thought that if this were so, a dream were better than a waking life—unless— Could these be thoughts that came to her of the world beyond the water, the reflection of the real life? She knew not. “We must teach this little dreamer what is life!” they said. “She will not know what life is if we leave her to her dreams.” They made her work and made her play: work that never seemed to do anyone any good, and play that seemed like work. She nearly forgot that in what they called her dreams she had ever known of another life. Sometimes she sang to herself, strange songs that they said sounded sad and sorrowful, yet of a sweetness all their own. “Where does she hear them?” people asked. But Eline never told. For the truth was that they came to her in moments when her thoughts were far away, dreaming. “She sings like a bird in a cage that knows of a brighter world outside,” said one. But he was a poet, so they only smiled as if they themselves would have made the same remark if it had not been so fanciful.