“Here are the books,” he replied, drawing one of the green curtains a little on one side, and there I saw rows of volumes in brown covers, which reminded me somewhat of the tint of the withered leaves. “You can stay here as long as you like,” said Phancie, dropping the curtain, “and read all the books.” “Oh, I can’t stay long enough for that,” I said regretfully. “I would be missed from my house.” “No, you would not,” he replied. “Time in Faeryland is different from time on earth—five minutes with you means five years with us—so if you stay here thirty years, you will only have been away from earth half an hour.” “But I’m afraid”— “Still unconvinced!” interrupted Phancie, a little sadly, leading me forward to the pool of water. “You mortals never believe anything but what you see with your own eyes—look!” He waved his white wand, and the still surface of the water quivered as if a breeze had rippled across it; then it became still again, and I saw my own room, and myself seated asleep in the arm-chair in front of a dull red fire. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I looked again the vision had vanished. “How is it my body is there and I am here?” I asked, turning to Phancie. “What you saw is your earthly body,” he said quietly, “but the form you now wear is your real body—like the butterfly and the grub of which I told you. Now, you can look at the books. You will not remember all you read, because there are some thoughts you may not carry back to earth; but the King will let you remember seven stories which you can tell to the children of your world. They will believe them, but you—ah! you will say they are dreams.” “Oh no, I won’t,” I said eagerly, “because it would not be true. This is not a dream.” “No, it is not a dream,” he said sadly; “but you will think it to be so.” “Never!” “Oh yes, you will. Mortals never believe.” I turned angrily away at this remark, but when I looked again to reply, Phancie had vanished—faded away like a wreath of snow in the sunshine, and I was alone in the beautiful room. Oh, it was truly a famous library, containing the most wonderful books in the world, but none of which I had seen before, except the faery tales. In one recess I found the lost six books of Spenser’s _Faerie Queene_, the last tales told by Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims, the end of Coleridge’s _Christabel_, some forgotten plays of Shakespeare, and many other books which had been lost on earth, or which the authors had failed to complete. I learned afterwards that they finished their earthly works in Faeryland, and that none of the books they had written during their lives were in the library, but only those they had not written. You will not know the names of the books I have mentioned, because you are not old enough to understand them but when you grow up, you will, no doubt, read them all—not the faery books, of course, but all the others which the men I mention have written.