A little ship stood by the shore of the great sea; into this Eline entered. There were other ships, some better, some worse. But somehow she knew that just this, and not another, was the ship she wanted, and none questioned her when she entered.

So they sailed away towards the setting sun.

Long was the voyage and lonely; for the seas ran high and all was dark below in the heart of the ship. Nine months they sailed on the ocean, until in the time appointed land appeared. Strange dwellings were there, domes and spires and crowded cities. With wide, wondering eyes Eline watched them as the ship passed them by in strange procession; for the men of that land were like none she knew; none of these things could she remember. For she had forgotten even her name at the river of forgetfulness, where remembrances are left in the mirror of the waters until time and their creator bring them back to life.

It seemed as though one of wise and kindly countenance held her as a little child in his arms and whispered softly, “Remember! I will return! I will! I will!” A light of happy recollection came to her and she smiled in reply. He had spoken in her own language as the harp had spoken, and strangely, strangely she seemed to see in him the harper whose music had told her of the sorrowful land beyond the sunset. For this moment, she remembered, and then the thought departed.

At first the air seemed heavy and oppressive to the wanderer; but by degrees she grew accustomed to it and even, in time, scarcely felt it. Yet ever and again a dim remembrance of brighter, purer skies came to her. She spoke of this more than once; but others only laughed and said: “The child is dreaming!”

Because she was no longer dressed in shining garments, they did not know her for the princess she really was. Indeed, she was no way different from those around her but that at heart she was still the daughter of the king. They could not see her heart—this they could not know. And seeing that they did not understand, she said no more of the thoughts that came to her. They called it dreaming; but Eline thought that if this were so, a dream were better than a waking life—unless—

Could these be thoughts that came to her of the world beyond the water, the reflection of the real life? She knew not.

“We must teach this little dreamer what is life!” they said. “She will not know what life is if we leave her to her dreams.”

They made her work and made her play: work that never seemed to do anyone any good, and play that seemed like work. She nearly forgot that in what they called her dreams she had ever known of another life.

Sometimes she sang to herself, strange songs that they said sounded sad and sorrowful, yet of a sweetness all their own.

“Where does she hear them?” people asked.

But Eline never told. For the truth was that they came to her in moments when her thoughts were far away, dreaming.

“She sings like a bird in a cage that knows of a brighter world outside,” said one. But he was a poet, so they only smiled as if they themselves would have made the same remark if it had not been so fanciful.

And though men thought her sad and lonely, there was joy to her in the hum of the bees and the song of the birds and the rustling of the leaves. The butterflies and the flowers and the brooks were her friends.

“What a strange child,” people said when they heard her talking to these friends. They did not know of the stories her friends told her, stories which reminded her of a wonderful garden of delight where men did not ever stare and stare in gaping wonder because a little child talked with the fairies that live in all things beautiful, clothed in robes of sunlight and rainbow hues.

They would have taken her away from these friends but for one old man, her grandfather, who said:

“The child will be better for the fresh air. Let her live while she may.”

So it was that she played and talked with the flowers and sang to the brooks and listened to the stories of the forest trees that whispered among themselves. None dared take her away.

One day she had been for a long ramble by a mighty river, and the sun had sunk to the westward on its journey; but she turned not to the place she called her home. Tired and worn out with her play, she lay on a rock and slept.

In her sleep it seemed that a touch upon her forehead awakened in her a vision of things she once had known, but had now almost forgotten. There was the king’s garden and the palace, and the other wonderful buildings, tall and stately—mighty buildings which seemed to speak of mighty builders, noble thoughts and great men’s deeds. Some were even more stately, some more humble, than the palace. But in all there was a sense of grander, nobler life than the life those knew who were with her now, and who, laughing, called her a dreamer.

And she heard a voice repeating, “I will return! I will! I will!”

Again she smiled as she recognized the voice. A feeling of intense happiness and content came to her and she—awoke. More than ever it seemed as if that other were the real life, and this a heavy dream.