HE Prince and Isal had now been married nearly five years, so that Isal was then eighteen years old and even more beautiful than when the prince found her in the garden. The royal family was at first displeased that the Prince should marry a peasant maiden, but Isal was so good that one could not help loving her, and soon every one said that there never had been such a Queen in Percan. As for the Prince, he loved her more than the whole of his kingdom; he always called her his Morning-Star. And Isal loved the Prince and was very happy in the palace where she had everything she could desire; but often in the five years did she remember the woodman's hut on the bank of the great blue river where she had spent her childhood; often she thought of her father living there alone, reft of his little daughter, the one comfort of his life. Then would the Prince come with his kind love, and quite drive away such sad thoughts. As the years went by she thought less of her former life; indeed it was so different from the present that she persuaded herself that she had died in her cot the night after finding the Old Brown Coat, that now she was in the Paradise she had heard her father tell about, and that the birds—the Phoenix and the Tufters—were the winged spirits that brought her there.

The Phoenix was now very nearly five hundred years old; in a few weeks he would have to build his nest and die. The Tufters too were five years older; but five years makes a great deal more difference with them than it does with the Phoenix. It makes them much wiser; even the one that had been rash was quite prudent now. They waited still on the old bird and brought him all the information they could find about the affairs of the world.

"I wonder how the Old Brown Coat does," said the Tufter who had once been rash, as they all stood round the Phoenix one night. "That was a very grand event we brought about—the marriage of the Prince with Isal. If it had not been for us, Isal might still have been only a woodman's daughter and not a Queen at all!" Here the Phoenix spoke, but with a very muffled voice; his age prevented him from talking very loud or much at a time; he was apt to repeat himself, too, sometimes, and to ramble in his remarks. But the Tufters always listened very respectfully to whatever he had to say: he was so old and so wise; everything he said would bear reflection.

"You are a goose. My great-great-great grandfather made the Old Brown Coat. He was called Phoenix the Tailor. The world is growing very degenerate. I am five hundred years old very nearly. I don't know what will become of it when I die. The Prince is very well, but he did not know me when he saw me in the garden. I was respected, though. The gardener knew me, and the people shouted. My great—"

The Phoenix was going on with some of his reminiscences, or perhaps beginning again, when just at this point there was a rustling in the bushes, and in burst the oldest of the Tufters who had been away hunting for news. All the rest bustled about him as he smoothed his feathers to make his manners to the Phoenix.

"I have some very important news!" began he, with great dignity. "Isal's father, the woodman is dying."

"Is he, indeed!" exclaimed the rest in chorus, except the Phoenix, who stood with one eye shut, painfully distracted between the desire to administer a rebuke and to hear further.

"That may be," said he, finally, "but you should not have interrupted me while I was speaking. Besides you have not told us yet the particulars."

"I was flying up the river," proceeded the eldest Tufter, respectfully, "when I happened to recollect little Isal, and how we brought her away from her house. I was passing the very spot, so I just flew in for a moment, and there I saw the woodman, her father, lying upon his bed very sick. There was no one with him."

"How sad!" said Rosedrop, mournfully.

"The cot from which we took Isal," added the Tufter, "was there still, just as we left it, in precisely the same spot."

"How remarkable!" said the rash Tufter, who had become prudent.

While all this cackling was going on, the Phoenix maintained a stiff silence. At last he stroked his beak with a claw. "Hush!" said the second Tufter, "we shall hear something now." And surely the Phoenix did speak.

"Children, Isal must know of this. We took her away on the Old Brown Coat. My great-great-great grandfather made the coat. He was called Phoenix the Tailor." It was very hard for the Phoenix to avoid speaking of this whenever the Old Brown Coat was mentioned, and he continued for some time to wander upon the subject, till they all thought he was through, and the Tufter, who had once been rash asked: "And who shall tell Isal?" The Phoenix was not really through, though. He was just in the midst of the sentence, "The world is growing very degenerate—" only the last word stuck in his throat—and he was exceedingly vexed that he should be interrupted by an upstart Tufter. "You—" are a goose, he tried to say, but the difficulty in his throat occurred again, and prevented any word beyond the first, and the Tufter taking it for a command to carry the news—he was too quick sometimes,—set off for the palace as fast as his wings could carry him.

"How provoking!" said the oldest; "he will spoil it all with his rashness!" The Phoenix now recovered himself, and having finished his two broken sentences together, "degenerate—are a goose," for he never left anything undone, told Rosedrop to fly faster and carry the news before the other. Rosedrop sped swiftly, and overtaking her brother, went with him in company and soon persuaded him, for he was a good-natured fellow, to let her undertake the message. So when they reached the palace garden, while her brother remained without, Rosedrop flew in at the open window where she had tapped nearly five years ago, and hovering over Isal as she lay asleep, told her the sad message, and flying out rejoined her bother.

"Did she hear you?" asked he.

"Oh, yes," said Rosedrop. "I told her all about it, and she looked very sad indeed. How sorry I am for her. I am sure I shall feel dreadfully when the Phoenix dies."

Now Isal really did hear all that Rosedrop told her; for as the Tufter flew through the open window, a suggestion entered the open window of her mind as she lay asleep, and this is what it showed her:—A lonely woodman's hut in the forest upon the bank of a great blue river; in the hut a solitary man, pale and thin, worn out with sickness and sorrow stretched upon a bed; not a living thing about the house; the axe lying rusty from disuse by the trunk of a fallen tree; one little bed deserted in the other corner of the room, toward which the sick man is turned with longing look, while his lips move but refuse to speak the name his heart dwells upon. And just as the Tufter flew out, having told her message, so did the picture vanish from Isal's mind, and in its place followed others in quick succession, all of them centering about one person—a maiden, who is now playing by the same hut, now surrounded mysteriously by strange birds, now waking to find herself kissed by a noble-looking man, who marries her and makes her Queen of the land. With this she awoke, and saw the Prince leaning over her.

"What were you dreaming about, Morning-Star, that made you look so sad just before I kissed you?" said the Prince. Then Isal told him her dream.

"My father is sick unto death," she said sorrowfully, when she had finished, "and longs to see his daughter." But the Prince comforted her, and told her that he would send messengers who should travel over the whole country to find her father and bring her word of him. So the messengers were sent out in search of the woodman. But the Prince did not know nor Isal, that he lived so far away and so hidden that it would not be possible to reach him before he died.

Meanwhile the Phoenix and the Tufters kept watch over the whole matter. The eldest Tufter returned one night from a visit to the palace where he had seen his friend, the Rabbit. "The Peacock," said he, "would have nothing to do with me since I took to calling on the Rabbit; but I am not sorry, for he is very tiresome and is for ever talking about his tail. The Rabbit is much more sensible, though he has some strange tastes. Do you know, he is very fond of chewing parsley? Is it not queer? I asked the Rabbit what the news was. He said he would ask the Mouse and proposed to me to go and call on him. I was afraid to at first; the Mouse is so learned; but then the Rabbit is on very good terms with him and promised to introduce me. So I got the Squirrel to brush me down—he always carries a whisk brush with him and is very obliging—and went with the Rabbit to call on the Mouse. The Rabbit did not seem at all disconcerted. He was chewing parsley all the way; but I was trying to think what it was proper to say upon entering."

"The Mouse lives in a very small house; he had to come out to the door to us; it was quite impossible for us to enter. He looked very venerable indeed, and very learned. His hair was brushed back over his forehead, and his whiskers were grown very long. I noticed the Rabbit wore his so; he told me afterwards that it was the fashion among learned men, and though he did not presume to call himself a learned man, yet he thought it best to be in the fashion. I hardly knew what to say to the Mouse; I had been trying all the way to think of some book I might mention, but the Rabbit opened the way very easily. He told the Mouse where I was from and mentioned my connection with you, sir," (turning to the Phoenix; the Phoenix bowed—"Yes, I am well known," he said.) "Ah, indeed," said the Mouse. "The Phoenix? yes. I came across an account of the Phoenicians in a book the other day; the book was elegantly bound; the Phoenicians are a very enterprising race."

"The Phoenicians! indeed!" broke in the angry Phoenix. "There is but one Phoenix. I am the only Phoenix, I am nearly five hundred years old. My great-great-great-grandfather made the Old Brown Coat." And he went on with his reminiscences till he was quite exhausted. After that the Tufter hardly dared mention the Mouse, and, indeed, began to suspect that he was not so very learned after all; but he proceeded to state how he had gathered that the Prince had sent messengers to find the woodman, Isal's father.

"It is in vain," said the Phoenix, who had recovered himself, and was really growing very wise, as the days of his life neared their end. "It is in vain, children, you must go again to the Palace—all of you. I would go myself, but I am getting too old, and besides, I must begin to gather my spices and make my dying nest. This you must tell Isal. Her father longs to see her once before he dies. Yet if she chooses to go to him she must die after him, for she has worn the Old Brown Coat. If she remains with the Prince she shall be happy for many years, and be beloved by her husband and king. If she decide to go, then do you four bear her away to her father."

Away flew the Tufters to the Palace. Again did Rosedrop fly through the window, and hovering over the bed, unknown to the Prince give her message to the sleeping Isal. Again, and at the same time, did a suggestion fly through the open window of the Queen's mind, showing her in succession two pictures:—In one she saw a maiden sitting by the bedside of a dying man in a lonely woodman's hut by the banks of a great blue river; the woodman's eyes are bent on her and all his pain and sorrow are gone; gently he closes his life in the sleep of death; and the maiden alone, with only the dead man upon the bed, sickens also, and lying upon the other cot, slowly, painfully closes her life with no one to hold her hand. Then Isal saw another picture—a Queen in the Palace honored by the people, having everything that she could desire, dearly loved and cherished by the King her husband, and living thus for many years, and when dying at last, wept over by all and kissed at the very moment of death by the good Prince. Then Isal woke up just as before by the kiss of the Prince, who was leaning over her. "You are sad again, my Morning-Star," said he. "Be comforted; your father will be found." But Isal did not tell him her dream this time.

"What is she going to do?" asked the rather forward Tufter of Rosedrop, as she came forth through the window again.

"She is perplexed," said Rosedrop. "We will come for her answer to-morrow night." All that day did Isal think over the two pictures she had seen, until at last the second one quite faded from view; only the first remained. "I will go," said she to herself, "even if I must die." The next night when the Tufters came for the answer, they found the window closed. Rosedrop tapped upon it with her beak. Isal within heard it. "It is the summons for me to go," said she. She leaned over the prince; he was asleep; she longed to give him a last kiss. "I will kiss him very gently," said she, but first she opened the window. There were the strange birds again; the beautiful one upon the sill; the rest hovering close by; she went back and lightly kissed the Prince. "Quick!" she said to herself as he stirred. "He is awaking!" She hastened to the window; she stood upon the sill; the birds floated in front of her, and letting herself sink upon their soft downy backs, and throwing her arms round Rosedrop's neck, off they flew, swifter than the rushing wind.

The Prince awakened by the kiss and the rustling opened his eyes only to see his Queen rising like a white cloud to the sky.

"Ah! she is gone! my Morning-Star has returned again to the sky!" he wailed, and stretching his supplicating hands he cried, "Come back to me! My Love! My Morning-Star!" And Isal heard him as she was swiftly borne, and her hot tears fell on Rosedrop's neck.

Just when the morning-star disappeared from the sky before the dawn, the Tufters laid Isal upon her cot in the woodman's hut, and fluttering around her for a moment, they flew away to the Phoenix, leaving Rosedrop only to keep watch. In the hut upon his pallet lay stretched the lonely woodman, who was dying. Day and night did Isal sit by his side and hold his hand while he gazed in her face, too weak to speak. Slowly the pain and the sorrow left his face, and instead came a smile of holy joy which never left him. For seven days and seven nights did Isal sit beside him. Then he died, and she, just able to reach her old cot, lay down upon it, weak and suffering. For seven days and seven nights did she lie there, racked with pain. This was a sad exchange for her happy life in the Palace; but she never repented; she could not when she saw the dead face with its heavenly smile still upon it.

"Isal is fast dying," said little Rosedrop sadly, as she flew back from the hut to the Phoenix and her brothers. "Oh! she suffers dreadfully."

"That must be so," said the Phoenix wisely. "It could not be otherwise." The Phoenix now was so old that in an hour he would die. He had gathered his spice and built his nest; already had he taken his seat upon it, and was awaiting the last moment of the five hundredth year, while the Tufters stood around sorrowfully, each upon one leg, manifesting their respect to the old bird by making their manners constantly; it pleased the Phoenix so much. And the grand bird as he neared his end grew more and more wise and prophetic.

"Rosedrop!" said he to his favorite Tufter. "Go quickly to Isal's cot. She will die; but when she dies, watch for her spirit and bear it hither ere I die." Swiftly sped Rosedrop to the hut by the river. There she watched by Isal's bedside; saw her go through terrible suffering, but at last the struggle was over, and Rosedrop saw through her tears, which she shed for the first and only time, Isal's spirit floating upward. She clasped it to her bosom and darted to the Phoenix.

"It is the hour!" said the Bird, before Rosedrop had returned. "My life is closed. I have lived five hundred years." He plucked a golden feather from his breast, and lighted the nest of spices on which he reclined. The smoke rose slowly, enveloping him in it, while the Tufters, overcome with grief, forgot their manners, and stood on both legs peering into the smoke. At that moment Rosedrop, with the spirit of Isal, darted into the circle. The Phoenix saw her.

"Lay the spirit in the nest," said he, and Rosedrop heedless of the fire which burned her beautiful body, laid Isal's spirit in the nest by the Phoenix.

"It is enough!" said the Phoenix. "I am perishing, but another Phoenix shall arise and the spirit of Isal shall live in it. Isal is the Phoenix that is to be. I die but she shall live."

As he said it, there was a smouldering in the nest; a heap of embers enveloped in smoke lay before the Tufters; in a moment the smoke parted and out of the embers soared with crimson and golden plumage the new Phoenix!

But the new Phoenix remembered still the life that belonged to him when he was a maiden. The Phoenix, moreover, is a most wonderful bird. It can change itself into many shapes. Every New Year's Day did this Phoenix visit the Palace and present itself at the Festivity of the Old Brown Coat, and every New Year's night, after the Sixteen Coat Tails had robed and unrobed the lonely Prince with the greatest care, did the Phoenix visit the Prince alone, and for one night he returned to the old shape of the beautiful Isal. And when the Prince died he was changed into a palm-tree, and the Phoenix dwelt in the branches.