The Little House in the Fairy Wood

  CHAPTER II

  THE BRIGHT HOUSE

  Eric knew nothing of the little girl and her thoughts. He was walking ina golden mist, but he could see quite perfectly, and even far ahead downlong tree aisles. At first the trees did not grow very close together,and there was little underbrush. Several narrow paths started off indifferent directions,--straight little paths made by people who knewwhere they were going. But Eric did not know where he was going, so hestruck off in a place where there was no sign of a path. Soon the treesdrew closer and closer together, until their branches locked fingersoverhead and shook the yellow leaves down for each other. The leavesshowered softly and steadily. Eric's feet rustled loudly in them.

  Soon he stopped and took off his worn shoes and stockings. He left themwhere he took them off and went on, barefoot. Now that he was only inhis shirt and trousers he began to run and leap. He leapt for thedrifting leaves, and he ran farther and farther into the happystillness.

  The trees crowded and crowded, and the mist of leaves grew brighter andbrighter. No birds sang, for they had all flown away for the winter, andthere were no flowers. But the drifting leaves hid the bareness, andmagic covered everything.

  After Eric had run and leapt and waded in the crackling pools of leavesfor a long time, he grew hungry. "But there is no food here," hethought; "and anyway it doesn't matter. It's much better to be hungryhere than in the dirty streets."

  He decided to go to sleep and forget about it. So he lay down in theleaves. They fell over him, a steady, gentle shower, and he slept long,and without dreaming anything.

  But when he woke he was cold. And worse than that, the golden mist hadfaded. It was almost twilight. The light was cold and still and gray.While he slept Indian Summer had vanished and its magic with it.

  Now no matter how fast Eric ran, or how high he jumped, he was chillythrough and through. But he did not think of trying to find the way outof the wood. The streets would be as cold as the forest, and never,never, never, if he starved and froze, was he going back to that housein the village where he had lived but never belonged. So he went onuntil the gray light faded, and the soft rustle of falling leaveschanged to the noise of wind scraping in bare branches. When he was verycold, and ready to lie down and sleep again to forget, he came quitesuddenly on an opening in the trees. In the dim light he saw a littlegarden closed in with a hedge of baby evergreens. The wind was rustlingthrough the stalks of dead flowers in the garden. But in the middle ofit was a little low house, and the windows and doors were glowing likenew, warm flowers.

  Yes, it was a house and a garden away there in the wood, but no path ledto it through the forest, and there was a strangeness about it as aboutno house or garden Eric had ever seen.

  Although no path led through the wood to the house, a path did runthrough the garden to the low door stone. Eric went up it and stoodlooking in at the door, which was open.

  The glow of the house came from a leaping, jolly fire in a big stonefire-place, and from half a dozen squat candles set in brackets aroundthe walls. It was the one lovely room that Eric had ever seen. It was solarge that he knew it must occupy the whole of the little house. But inspite of all the brightness, the comers were dim and far.

  There were two strange people there, or they were strange to Ericbecause they were so different from any people he had ever known. Onewas a young woman who sat sewing cross-legged on a settle at the side ofthe fire-place. About her the strangest thing was her hair. It was notlike most women's,--long and twisted up on her head. It was short, andcurled back above her ears and across her forehead like flower-petals.It was the color of the candle-flames. But her face was brown, and herneck and long hands were brown, as though she had lived a long time inthe sun. Her eyes that were lifted and scarcely watching the work in herhands, were very quiet and gray.

  She was watching and talking to a little girl who was skipping back andforth between a rough tea-table set near the fire and an opencupboard-door in the wall. She was carrying dishes to the table, and nowand then stopping to stir something good-smelling which hung over thefire in a pewter pot, with a strong bent twig for a handle.

  The child was strange in a very different way from her mother. Themother, one could see, was merry in spite of her quiet eyes. But thechild was pale. Her face was pale and little and round. Her hair waspale, too, the color of ashes, and braided in two smooth little braidshanging half way down her back. She moved with almost as much swiftnessas the fire-shadows, and as softly too.

  Both mother and daughter were dressed in rough brown smocks, with narrowgreen belts falling loosely,--strange garments to Eric. And their feetwere bare.

  But stranger than the house, stranger than the people in it, was thefact that the mother was talking to the little girl just as people ofthe same age talk to each other; and though Eric was shaking with coldand aching with hunger, he could still wonder deeply at that.

  "It's a long way 'round by the big pine," she was saying; "but you see Iam home in time for supper. Suppose I had not come until after dark.What would you have done, Ivra?"

  The little girl stopped in her busy-ness to stand on one foot and thinka second. "Why, I'd have put the supper over the fire, lighted thecandles, and run out to meet you."

  "Oh, but you wouldn't know which way to run. I might come from anydirection."

  "I'd follow the wind," cried Ivra, lifting her serious face and risingto her tiptoes, one arm outstretched, as though she were going to followthe wind right then and there.

  It was at that minute they noticed the door had blown open, and that alittle boy was standing in it, looking at them.

  But they neither stared nor exclaimed. Ivra ran to him, her arms stilloutstretched in the flying gesture, and drew him in. His dirty face wasstreaked with tears, and his legs and feet were blue with the cold. Theyknew it was not question-time, but comfort-time, so the mother folded anarm about him, and Ivra skipped more rapidly than ever between thecupboard and the table. Almost at once supper was ready, and the tableset for three. As the last thing, Ivra brought all the candles and setthem in the middle of the table. They sat down,--Eric with his back tothe fire. It warmed him through and through, but their friendly faceswarmed him more.

  Very little was said, but when the meal was nearly over Ivra asked himhow long he was going to stay with them. Immediately he stopped eatingand dropped his spoon. His eyes filled with tears. He had utterlyforgotten about his plight until then,--how he was homeless, worklessand bound to starve and freeze sooner or later. Ivra's mother saw themisery in his face and quietly spoke, "We hope for a long time. As longas you want to, anyway. Three in a wood will be merrier than two in awood. . . . If you like me I will be your mother."

  Ivra clapped her hands. "Stay always," she cried. "I will be yourplaymate. There will be many playmates besides, too, and I will help youfind them."

  Eric glowed. The hatred that had been flaring in his head suddenlyfaded, and the heavy thing that had been his heart for as long as hecould remember, became light as thistledown. He looked at the mother andthe kindness in her eyes made him tremble. "I will stay and be yourchild," he said.