While the nightingale was thus singing in such a capricious manner, paying no attention to metre or rhyme, the whole glade changed, but I was so entranced with the bird music, that I did not notice the transformation until I found myself in a splendid hall with a lofty ceiling, seated on a couch of green velvet. The trees around were now tall slender pillars of white marble, and between them hung long curtains of emerald velvet. The pool was still in the centre, with its broad white water-lilies asleep on its breast, but it was now encircled by a rim of white marble, and reflected, not the blue sky, but an azure ceiling, upon which fantastic patterns in gold reminded me somewhat of the intricate traceries of the trees. High up in the oval ceiling, in place of the moon, there hung a large opaque globe, from whence a soft, cool light radiated through the apartment. As I was looking at all these beautiful things, I heard a soft laugh, and, on turning round, saw a man of my own height, dressed in robes of pale green, with a sweeping white beard, a purple cap on his head, and a long slender staff in his hands. “You don’t know me?” he said in a musical voice. “My name is Phancie, and I am the librarian of the King.” “Were you the faery?” I asked, looking at him. “I am always a faery,” he replied, smiling. “You saw me as I generally appear to mortals; but, as the King has given you permission to learn some of the secrets of Faeryland, I now appear to you in my real form.” “So this is the King’s library?” I said, looking round; “but how did I come here?—or rather, how did the glade change to the library?” “The glade has not changed at all,” said Phancie quietly; “it is still around you, but your eyes have been unsealed, and you now see beneath the surface.” “But I don’t understand,” I observed, feeling perplexed. “It is difficult,” assented Phancie gravely, “but I can show you what I mean by an illustration. When you see a grub, it only looks to your eyes an ugly brown thing; but my eyes can see below the outside skin, to where a beautiful butterfly is lying with folded wings of red and gold. The glade you saw was, so to speak, the skin of the library. Now, your sight has been made keen by the command of the King. You see this splendid room—it is still the glade, and still the room; only it depends upon your sight being lightened or darkened.” “It doesn’t look a bit like the glade.” “You don’t think so, of course,” said Phancie kindly; “but I will explain. The white pillars are the trunks of the trees; the green curtains between are the green leaves; the ceiling is the blue sky; the white globe that gives light is the moon; and the golden fretwork on the ceiling is the leaves and boughs of the trees shining against the clear sky.” “And the books?” I asked quickly.