No answer coming to her knock, Laura pushed the door open, and saw just the same poor little room Grim had described. There were fagots burning on the hearth; but though it was so poor and bare, it had an air of neatness and order as if unused. Even the forlorn little bed of straw looked as if no one had slept on it. Laura was so disappointed that she knew not what to do; but, too tired to make any search, she was about turning away when a light footfall arrested her, and she saw the figure of a weeping child coming towards the hut. Evidently this was the elder of the two children, for she had the same brown hair Grim had spoken of, but she was so much overcome by sorrow that she did not see Laura until she came quite to the door, and then she started as if with painful surprise.

"Do not be alarmed," said Laura. "I have been walking a long way, and am very tired: can you let me rest here for the night?"

"Oh yes," said the girl, with a sweet, sad smile. "I am very lonely now, but"—and she hesitated, glancing at Laura's embroidered dress—"I fear I cannot offer you anything so nice as you are used to having. I am very poor."

"But see, I have enough for both of us," said Laura, showing her flask of wine and her oat-cakes; "and I have nice warm clothing, too, which a kind friend sent to you. But where is little Fritz?"

A look of such deep pain came in the girl's pale face that Laura was sorry she had asked.

"How did you know anything about my little Fritz?" responded the girl, in a low tone.

"I will explain very soon," replied Laura; "but first tell me your name—mine is Laura."

"And mine is Kathinka, or Kathie."

"Now we can get along nicely; but shall we not have more fire and some tea before I tell you my story?" said Laura.

"I have no tea, and since little Fritz has been gone I have not cared to eat," said Kathie, with the dulness of sorrow.

"Then I will make the fire burn better," said Laura, "and make tea, too, for I am sure the Motherkin packed some."

"But your hands are too fine and white—no, I will do it," said Kathie, more aroused; and she went out for a while, and came back with some sticks. Presently there was a good blaze, and Laura got out the tea and sugar and cakes, and set them down on the hearth, for there was no table. Laura was hungry, and glad to eat, and, after looking somewhat curiously at her, Kathie, too, joined in the simple repast.

Then Laura told her all about herself, beginning at her mother's leaving her with the Motherkin, all about her new and strange experiences, about Grim, and lastly about her adventures in the woods coming to Kathie's relief. Kathie became so interested that she forgot for a moment her sorrow; but when Laura related Grim's account of little Fritz, and Kathie's own kindness to her young brother, about Grim's whisper to the woodsman, and his regret at leaving the children alone, and Laura's resolve to come to them, she could keep quiet no longer, but fell into such sobbing as Laura had never heard nor seen before. Though she had not seen the like, she knew by intuition that tenderness and patience would subdue it; so she drew Kathie's head on her own shoulder, and softly smoothed the child's brown hair; then she bathed the poor tired eyes with her handkerchief, and forced a little wine upon the sorrowful girl, and at last Kathie fell asleep.

Outside the wind was rising, the moonlight glittering; within, by the few smouldering brands, sat the two children. Laura held Kathie until her own head began to droop, and then, in each other's arms still resting, they slept the sound sleep of childhood.

When the bright beams of morning penetrated the little hut, Kathie awakened first, and rekindled the little fire.

Laura still slept; unaccustomed to so much fatigue, she needed the long rest, and as Kathie looked at the pretty silver and blue of her dress, and at the golden hair and healthful flush of her young companion's fair face, she seemed to her an angel of mercy sent to comfort her in her loneliness. For little Fritz was gone to the better land; hunger and want had been more than his poor little crippled body could bear, and Kathie's kindness could not keep life any longer in so feeble a frame. The woodsman had made a little grave in the forest for him, and there poor Kathie had gone every day, and was but returning from it the evening previous when she found Laura waiting for her.

As soon as Laura had wakened, and the two children had eaten, Kathie led Laura to the place where her brother had been laid. Birds were singing gayly in the trees over his head, and Kathie had made wreaths of wild-flowers and garlands of grasses and placed them over the spot so dear to her. Together they stood silently listening to the birds' clear notes, and the morning was so bright and beautiful that Kathie could not grieve as she had done the night before. With Laura's hand clasped over hers, she felt that she was no longer alone; and when Laura said, "Now we will both go back to the dear Motherkin," she did not refuse, but turned away to make her little preparations. This was soon done, and guided by Laura's staff, they started out for their long tramp through the woods.

"Now, Kathie," said Laura, after they had walked far enough to need a little rest, "let us sit on this nice mossy rock, and you tell me, please, how you came to be living all alone here in the woods."

Kathie sat down, and, pushing back her hair, said to Laura, "It is all so sad and sorrowful that I wonder you care to hear about it."

"But I do—really I do; only if it makes you unhappy to tell me, perhaps you had better not."

"It is not much to tell: we have not been long alone. I do not remember my mother; my father was a wood-cutter, and we were very happy till the war came, and he had to be a soldier, and leave little Fritz and me all alone."

"Your father a soldier! so is mine. How nice!" said Laura.

"Ah, but your father is an officer, of course, and can do almost as he pleases, while my poor father had hardly time to bid us good-bye when he went away; and I do not know whether he is alive or has been killed in some dreadful battle."

"Then we'll think he is alive and well, and soon coming home," said Laura, springing up and dragging Kathie with her for a race. "Come, we will not talk any more, for your eyes are full of tears, and this is too lovely a day for us to be unhappy, my poor, poor Kathie. Come! I am sorry I asked you anything."

The day was indeed lovely, and the soft, sweet air was full of delicious odors from the many buds and blossoms.

Soon the children forgot their sad talk, and were chasing butterflies, when again Laura, in her glee, threw down her staff, and could not recollect the spot where it had fallen.

"Oh, Kathie, my staff! my staff is lost again! where did I put it?" she exclaimed, when a little mocking voice was heard repeating her words, and skipping over the rocks was seen the well-remembered rabbit-skin of the Herb Elf.

Laura was very much provoked at her own carelessness, and annoyed at again seeing her teasing acquaintance of the woods reappear; but she had gained a little wisdom from her former encounter, and took care not to show her vexation.

But Kathie was very much alarmed, and clung close to Laura. The Herb Elf, seeing this, brandished his bludgeon, and executed a fantastic series of capers.

"Afraid, are you?—ho! ho! he! he! A great big girl afraid of me!" he sung.

"I am not afraid, Mr. Elf," said Laura. "You and I have met before, and what nice honey you gave me! I am sure Kathie would like some, and are you too busy to help me find my staff?"

"Lost it again, have you? Oh, you're a nice one! I am busy pruning witch-hazels, and your knife has been very useful."

"So much the more reason why you should find my staff again for me. Please, Mr. Elf, do be as kind as you were before."

"Let me see you dance again."

Laura took Kathie's hand and whirled her away in a waltz till they were both breathless, while Kathie whispered, "What shall we do to get away from this strange little creature?"

"He will find my staff if we are good-natured," replied Laura, in a whisper, "and we never could get back to the Motherkin without it."

Suddenly the Herb Elf came up behind Kathie, and, jumping up vigorously, gave a twitch to one of her brown braids.

"They don't come off, then?" he said, as Kathie winced.

"No, they are not meant to," said Laura, in some haste, fearing he might be disposed to cut one.

"I was in China once, and saw all the men with pigtails—how do you think I would look with one?"

"Queer," answered Laura, still fearing he might covet Kathie's beautiful hair.

"Not at all queer," said the elf, angrily, stamping his foot and hitching his rabbit-skin from shoulder to shoulder.

A bright thought just then came to Kathie, but fearing to speak to the Herb Elf, she whispered it to Laura.

"Oh, Mr. Elf," said Laura, "Kathie thinks you would be grand with a great long Chinese queue, and she says she is sure she could make one for you."

At this the elf looked greatly pleased, and cut a very curious caper.

"But," continued Laura, "she needs some flax to make it of, for her dark brown hair would not be at all becoming to you."

The elf frowned at this, and asked, "Why not?"

"Oh, it would be really ridiculous; instead of looking like a Chinese mandarin, a splendid, elegant Chinese, you would be exactly like an ugly old Indian who had scalped somebody—indeed, it would not be nice," said Laura, very earnestly, so afraid was she that the elf would insist upon having one of Kathie's beautiful braids. "But if you would get us some lovely yellow flax, Kathie would plait it, and we would fasten it on for you, and then you would find my staff for me, and we would be your friends forever."

"Ho! ho! he! he!" laughed the elf. "Well, I'll get the flax;" and away he went, leaving the two girls again alone.

Laura squeezed Kathie, and told her she was a jewel for thinking of the flax, for she certainly would have had to cut off her hair had she not been so shrewd.

By this time they were hungry; so, opening their basket, they sat down to their dinner. Birds hopped tamely near them for the crumbs, and squirrels leaped, chattering, from bough to bough. They finished their lunch, but still the elf did not return; they did not dare to go from the spot where he had left them, and their little hearts were full of anxiety, for if he should not return, how could they ever find their way through the woods without the precious staff? Laura blamed herself for her giddiness, and wondered how she could for a moment have been so forgetful. Kathie tried to comfort her, and suggested that if they found it again it would be well to tie or fasten it in some way to her girdle.