Laura's step was light and brisk, for she carried a light heart, she was animated by a new purpose; the pleasure of doing good, or of only having the wish to do good, was a new happiness to her, and as she walked she trolled out a merry little song she had heard Nannette sing in the nursery. When she grew weary, she sat down and made a wreath for her hat; when she was thirsty, she drank from the little cup at her girdle, for there was always a stream at hand, first on one side of the road, then on the other, and the babbling of the brook was like a pleasant voice telling her sweet stories. It seemed to whisper to her how glad her mother would be to hear that she was getting to be a better child. Then again it sang to her of the woods and the mosses, the wild-flowers and the birds, and of its own busy life—how much it had to do to keep all these pretty things refreshed and alive, and how it suffered when the drought came, and the sun was scorching, and the little leaflets withered on its brink; and as its voice became sad, and tears welled in the child's eyes, it would suddenly seem to burst into a foam of laughter and toss itself in tiny cascades over the pebbles. Then Laura would laugh too, and forget all sadness. Then she would take off her shoes and stockings and wade, and watch the flies dart hither and thither as she dashed the drops apart. So the day went on. Her path grew wilder, the woods more difficult to go through. Great masses of tangled vines interlaced and hung low, reaching out their tendrils as if to hinder her. Clouds gathered, and the skies were dark. A storm seemed coming. The birds ceased twittering. Low mutterings of thunder, far away, broke the stillness.

Laura's feet were aching, and her heart oppressed. Doubts troubled her. Why had they let her come alone on this long journey? It was cruel. She forgot the poor children, and, throwing herself down, she thought she would go no farther. Her staff was still in her hand, and as she fell it seemed to draw her gently up again, just as a magnet picks up a needle; it led her to a little cave or grotto, merely a nook under great rocks, but in it was a heap of leaves which would serve her as a place of repose, and she would be sheltered from the approaching storm, which, now that the wind had arisen, was swaying the trees violently. Crouching in a corner, she listened to the crashing of boughs, the peals of thunder, and the dash of the rain. But she was safe and unharmed. Gradually the wind decreased, the vivid gleam of lightning stopped flashing in her frightened eyes, the thunder rolled farther and farther away; the birds began chirping softly; there was but a gentle plash of drops from the dripping leaves; long rays of sunshine stole in between the branches. The storm was over.

Laura took courage, ate her dinner, and started forth again.

She was not so merry as in the early morning; Nannette's song was forgotten; but in her graver face was an expression of determination. The poor children came again to her recollection, and she renewed her zeal.

On and on she went, sometimes nearly falling, but her staff maintained her, and prevented that. She climbed, she waded, she slipped, she scrambled. Sometimes on dizzy heights she looked down into chasms; then she would cross peaceful and lovely valleys; then the road would wind up to some high summit again, giving her pictures of mountain-peaks and clouds and all their many charms; and while on the crest of a high hill, with all the heavens in a glow, she saw the sun sink beneath the horizon, and knew that darkness would soon surround her. Hurriedly descending, her staff led her to a group of oak-trees, whose wide and shadowy boughs seemed to offer her the protection of which she was in need. Farther and farther sank the sun, leaving clouds of purple and gold to fade into the soft shades of twilight. The hush of evening fell upon nature; stars peeped out. Laura watched the waning light until, too tired to keep her eyes open, she laid her head upon her little knapsack, and was soon in a deep slumber. Whether or not wild beasts came prowling about, or owls hooted, or the night winds sighed in the tree-tops, Laura knew not; she slept as soundly and as safely as if in her own carefully watched nest in the castle. When she awoke, the sun was rising, birds were singing, and every blade of grass twinkled with dew-drops. After her morning prayer of thanks for the night's rest, a dip into the brook close by, and a little shake and jump by way of dressing, she sat down to her breakfast of oat-cake.

As she munched it in leisurely fashion, wishing for some honey, she thought she saw a queer little figure making grimaces at her. It was an odd little creature, with a rabbit-skin so thrown over him that she fancied it might, after all, be only a bunny out in search of breakfast.

"Good-morning, my dear, good-morning! So you wish you had some honey, do you?" said the queer little creature.

Laura laughed out in surprise. "How do you know?" she asked.

"How do I know anything, Miss Rudeness? By my wits, to be sure."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Laura, conscious at once of having offended; "but I did not know I had spoken aloud."

"Nor did I; we people of the woods do not wait to be spoken to—we are wiser than you. But do you really want some honey? If so, come with me and I will show you where you can find it."

"But who are you? I never saw you before," said Laura, forgetting that the little creature had already shown himself to be easily angered.

"Who am I? What difference is that to you?" said the queer little object. "Honey is honey; if you want some, come with me; if you don't, stay where you are."

"Oh, really," said Laura; "you are very kind. I do like honey, and it would be very nice with my dry oat-cake;" and, forgetting her staff, she followed the elf into the woods. He led her to a hollow tree, and, flinging his rabbit-skin away, clambered into the cavity, and came out with a great mass of glistening honey dripping from its white comb.

"Here; now let me see you eat it," said the elf, putting on his rabbit-skin again, and laying the honey-comb on a broad leaf at her feet. Laura sat down and dipped her oat-cake into the honey.

"It is delicious," said Laura. "Won't you have some?"

"I? No, indeed," said the elf, standing off and gazing at her curiously from beneath his bushy little eyebrows.

"Don't you care for it?"

"No; I'd rather sharpen my teeth on an acorn."

"But that is so bitter."

"It suits my digestion. I am a planter of bitter herbs."

"Are you? Oh, then you must know my good friend Grim?"

"To be sure I do! He came to see me a few days ago."

Laura thought Grim must be mistaken in his belief that the elves were fond of teasing children, for surely this one had been kind to her, when suddenly she remembered that she had not her staff with her. She jumped up hastily, crying out:

"Oh, my staff! my staff! I must go back and find it."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the elf, evidently amused at her alarm.

"Which way must I go?" asked Laura, anxiously.

"Any way you please, my dear. Is not the honey so good as it was?"

"Oh yes, yes, it is just as nice, and I thank you ever so much for it. Now, please, dear Mr. Elf, let me go for my staff."

"I am not keeping you, am I?" laughed the elf, beginning a strange sort of dance, rubbing his hands together, and giving a series of jerks to the rabbit-skin.

Laura was ready to cry with vexation and alarm, but something seemed to tell her that she must control herself and not let this mischievous creature know how she felt; so, springing to her feet, she said, "I, too, can dance—see," and she waltzed away as if she were in a ball-room.

"Hurrah!" shouted the elf; "that is capital."

"Shall I teach you how to do it?" asked Laura, stopping to get breath.

"Yes; let me see the steps; go slowly. Oh, your feet are so big and clumsy I cannot copy you."

"But, Mr. Elf, you do it beautifully—really you do. Now show me, please, where the oak-trees are, that I may find my staff."

At this anxious request the elf started on a run, whooping and hallooing. Laura could do nothing else than follow him, but she found it difficult, he was so small and sprightly. Nimbly he leaped over the rocks, turning occasionally to make a queer grimace at poor Laura's efforts to keep pace with him. When it pleased him, he stopped and waited for her to come up.

A happy thought came to Laura. "Mr. Elf," said she, "I have a fine knife here. You could use it for almost anything. See, it is nearly as long as your arm, and it has a very curiously ornamented case, all of silver."

"Let me see it closer," said the elf, reaching up for it.

Laura held it high out of his reach, but his eyes evidently danced with eagerness to get it.

"A little closer—a little closer," said the elf.

"Not till I have my staff: give me that, and you shall have this," said Laura, shutting the knife and holding it still over his head.

"You have no fun in you. What do you want of your staff? Stay here in the woods, and you'll not need one. But you have not told me where you are going."

All the time he was speaking, the elf had his eyes on the knife; but Laura was guarded.

"I am going on an errand of charity, and I need my staff; please give it me. Look what a knife this is"—and she sprung the blade open again; then, assuming to be weary of waiting, she said, "Well, I must go without my staff, I suppose. I have lost too much time already. Good-morning, Mr. Elf. Your honey was very nice; I am much obliged. Good-morning;" and she turned as if to go.

"Hoity-toity! you are in haste. Well, if you must go, good-bye. Your staff is on your left-hand side, beneath the very trees before you. But how will I get the knife now?"

"Here," said Laura, only too glad to regain her precious staff; and giving the knife a toss on the grass, she ran for her stick. The elf shouted and danced again, and, shouldering the knife as if it had been a great bludgeon, he disappeared in the forest, the rabbit-skin dangling behind his back.

Laura was greatly relieved, and started on her tramp with the resolve that nothing should hinder or detain her again. All day she kept in the bed of the brook, as the Motherkin had told her to do, and as it grew afternoon and the rocks became precipitous it seemed to her that she could not go farther; but thoughts of the children inspired fresh courage. Her feet were aching, but as she reached the top of the high bank which bordered the stream, she espied a little thin curl of blue smoke rising probably from the very cottage of which she was in search. Pushing on through brambles and bushes, led by the gentle guidance of her valuable staff, she at last came to the cottage door, and, with her heart beating rapidly from excitement and fatigue, gently knocked for admittance.