Maggie threw herself down and took poor Alfonso in her arms. Blood was oozing from between his beautiful feathers, and his eyes were closed. Nobody noticed her as she carried him away, followed by Rhoda and the Cochin-Chinaman. Her tears were falling thick on him, blinding her, so that she could hardly see where she was going, and she almost ran into a dark young man who was coming towards them. It was Dan—Dan, with his gold earrings and rabbit-skin cap. Rhoda poured out the story of their search to him, and he took them to a pond, where he poured water down Alfonso’s throat and felt his breast to see if his heart was still beating. “Run and meet my brother,” he said to Rhoda; “our vans are just coming into the village. Tell him from me to go and settle with that long-nosed thief. I’ll come and help him when I see whether Alfonso’s dead or not.” So Rhoda ran. And now we are coming to the end of the story. Alfonso was not dead, and he did not die; he was nursed back to life by Dan and Maggie; but he never fought again, for his back was dreadfully injured, and he was lame for the rest of his days. The three friends returned to their old life in the vans, for Maggie had been much missed, and was received back with joy. Neither was Rhoda left behind, because she soon became Dan’s wife and went to live with him in the green van. The Cochin-Chinaman married again, but this time with better luck; for he chose a good dame of suitable age, who knew the world far too well to wish to quarrel with anyone in it. And Alfonso, in spite of his crippled body, was not unhappy. He limped round the van wheels or sat in his basket on the step, looking out on the green woods and blue distances of their various places of sojourn. His fighting days were done, but he was well content; for those who have taken their share in life are those who can best bear to see it go by and accept their rest. THE FIDDLING GOBLIN One day they were in the miller’s garden. He had white rose-bushes on either side of his door and a box-tree by the gate. “Here is the book!” cried little Peter, who had dashed into the house, and now came dancing out with the volume in his hand. “I’ve been peeping inside, and there is such a fine bit about a man beating a big drum.” “You rascal!” said the miller. “Who told you you might touch my book? I shall put you into the mill-pond for that!” And he began to chase the little boy about, shouting and jumping over the flower-beds. It was really splendid. Janet stood by laughing. “Be quiet, Peter, or you’ll drop the book!” she exclaimed. “If he promises to read about the drum-man I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” shrieked Peter. “I promise, I promise,” said the miller, stopping beside a row of cabbages. So when Peter gave him the book and had settled down to listen, he began.