  Ellen looked about her. She was still standing in the golden room of the Queerbodies' house. Before her was the Fairy Tale, smiling down into her face with shining eyes. There, too, were the gander and the Queerbody. "Is that the story?" the Queerbody asked. Ellen clasped her hands. "Oh, yes," she cried, looking up into the Fairy Tale's face. "I'm sure you're the one. There were Goldenhair and the sooty hood and all. You 'll stay made up now, won't you?" "Yes," answered the Story; "and more than that, I'm going back with you too." Ellen gave a little cry of delight. She took the Story's hand in hers, and it was so smooth and white she laid her cheek against it, and then kissed it softly. "But how about the rhyme?" asked the gander. "Oh, yes; I'd forgotten to ask for that." Then Ellen told the Queerbody how she had promised Mother Goose that she would try to find a forgotten rhyme for her. The child couldn't tell the Queerbody exactly what the rhyme was, of course, because it was a forgotten one, but she explained as well as she could. The Queerbody seemed to know which one she meant. "Oh, yes, I can easily make that over; but if I do, you must promise to remember it and say it sometimes after you go back." Ellen was very willing to promise. Then the Queerbody bent over another jar and took out some wondercluff. She patted and twisted and pulled, and then she set what she had made upon the "Quank! quank!" cried the gander. "There he is again." The Rhyme blinked and looked about him, and then he spoke, still grinning broadly. "Hello! I guess I've been forgotten, haven't I? But somebody seems to have brought me back. Well, there's the old gander, same as ever." He ran over and caught hold of the gander's bridle. "Give me a ride?" he asked. "Yes, I'm going to carry you back with me." "Oh, goody, goody!" And the Rhyme hopped up and down as though its toes were made of rubber. But Ellen looked anxious. "I wonder how we're all to get back," she said, with a glance at the Fairy Tale. "I don't believe the gander can carry us all." "Oh, you're not going back with me," he answered. "The journey's too long for that, and there's an easier way." "Yes, a much easier way," chimed in the Queerbody. "Why, it's so easy that sometimes I go home without even trying." Ellen wondered. "Do you? And then you have to come all that long way to get here again?" "No, it's shorter when you know the way. Sometimes I get back in a minute. But put your ear against the wall and listen." Ellen put her ear against the golden wall. As she listened she gave a little gasp of amazement, and yet what she heard was not so very wonderful; it was only the voices of her mother and the seamstress talking quietly together in the sewing-room. Presently the voices grew fainter. Ellen leaned harder against the wall to catch their tones. Then all in a moment the wall yielded to her weight, She put out her hands to save herself, and caught hold of something hard and solid; it was the shelf of the bookcase. She was back in her own familiar nursery. She looked about her. There was no sign of where she had come through, no break in wall or ceiling. With a little cry she leaned forward and thrust her hands back between the book-shelves. They touched only the hard, cold wall. The vines were only painted on the paper; they would not draw aside under her eager fingers. As Ellen turned from the bookcase she saw the shape of the Fairy Tale standing between her and the window. She was sure she saw it. It smiled and waved its hand to her, and then it was gone like the fading of one's breath upon the window-pane. "Dear Fairy Tale, where are you?" cried Ellen; but there was no reply. Ellen waited a moment. "Fairy Tale!" she whispered. Still silence. Opening the door into the entry, the little girl ran down to the sewing-room as fast as she could. "Mamma, mamma!" she called. She burst like a little whirlwind into the room where her mother and the seamstress were quietly at work, and threw herself into her mother's lap. "I've been having the queerest time," she cried excitedly; "and you never could guess where I've been; never." "Wait," said her mother; "you're She put aside her sewing, and took the little girl upon her lap. "Now, what have you been doing?" Breathlessly and with flushing cheeks Ellen told her mother all about her journey and her strange adventures on her way to the Queerbodies' house. The mother listened and wondered. "That was a wonderful dream, indeed," she said. "A dream! Why, it wasn't a dream, mamma. It really happened. And then I saw the Fairy Tale after I came back. And then the Forgotten Story itself; I couldn't have dreamed all that, you know." "But, my dear, it couldn't have been anything but a dream." "Well, wait. I'm going to go down and tell grandmamma about it; and if it's the same story, then you know it must be true." "Very well; only go down quietly, for she may not have wakened from her nap yet." When Ellen peeped in through her grandmother's door, however, she saw the old lady sitting over in her rocking-chair near the window, knitting. "May I come in?" she asked. "Yes, yes, come in, little Clara. I was just wondering where you and all the other children were." The child drew up a little stool and sat down by her grandmother's knee. "Granny," she said, trying to speak quietly, "I think I know what happened to little Goldenhair now. Shall I tell you the story?" "Yes, do, my dear." So Ellen told her grandmother the story of Goldenhair. The grandmother listened, smiling and nodding her head. After a while she grew so interested that she pushed her glasses up on top of her cap. "Yes, yes, that is it. I didn't know anybody remembered that story any more, but that is the way I heard it when I was a child." "Then it's true," cried the child triumphantly; "and I really did find the Queerbodies' house, and see them making stories." "Ah, yes, I knew a Queerbody once, and she used to make stories;—verses, too. She was a lovely girl. It was long ago." "And did she tell you all about the Queerbodies' house and the golden jars?" But the grandmother shook her head. "It is a long time ago, and I forget. I am so old—so old, little Clara." "I knew it was n't a dream," murmured the child; and as she sat there by her grandmother's knee she felt the Fairy Tale was there, smiling gently upon them both, even though no one could see her. By Katharine Pyle
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