And the next night they came to the little Wild Thing and showed her the gleaming soul. And they said to her: ‘If you must have a soul and go and worship God, and become a mortal and die, place this to your left breast a little above the heart, and it will enter and you will become a human. But if you take it you can never be rid of it to become immortal again unless you pluck it out and give it to another; and we will not take it, and most of the humans have a soul already. And if you cannot find a human without a soul you will one day die, and your soul cannot go to Paradise, because it was only made in the marshes.’ Far away the little Wild Thing saw the cathedral windows alight for evensong, and the song of the people mounting up to Paradise, and all the angels going up and down. So it bid farewell with tears and thanks to the Wild Things of the kith of Elf-folk, and went leaping away towards the green dry land, holding the soul in its hands. And the Wild Things were sorry that it had gone, but could not be sorry long, because they had no souls. At the marsh’s edge the little Wild Thing gazed for some moments over the water to where the marsh-fires were leaping up and down, and then pressed the soul against its left breast a little above the heart. Instantly it became a young and beautiful woman, who was cold and frightened. She clad herself somehow with bundles of reeds, and went towards the lights of a house that stood close by. And she pushed open the door and entered, and found a farmer and a farmer’s wife sitting over their supper. And the farmer’s wife took the little Wild Thing with the soul of the marshes up to her room, and clothed her and braided her hair, and brought her down again, and gave her the first food that she had ever eaten. Then the farmer’s wife asked many questions. ‘Where have you come from?’ she said. ‘Over the marshes.’ ‘From what direction?’ said the farmer’s wife. ‘South,’ said the little Wild Thing with the new soul. ‘But none can come over the marshes from the south,’ said the farmer’s wife. ‘No, they can’t do that,’ said the farmer. ‘I lived in the marshes.’ ‘Who are you?’ asked the farmer’s wife. ‘I am a Wild Thing, and have found a soul in the marshes, and we are kin to the Elf-folk.’ Talking it over afterwards, the farmer and his wife agreed that she must be a gipsy who had been lost, and that she was queer with hunger and exposure. So that night the little Wild Thing slept in the farmer’s house, but her new soul stayed awake the whole night long dreaming of the beauty of the marshes.