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him little to ask for. Evenings, he had to read aloud out of a thick book, in which much was said about God. But he knew that book, and read it absent-mindedly.
The night after his walk in the snow, however, he lay awake in bed, looking at the cold shining of the moonlight on the floor. Suddenly he saw two tiny hands close beside him—clinging fast to the bedside. Then the top of a little white fur cap appeared between the two hands, and at last he saw a pair of earnest eyes under high-lifted eyebrows.
"Good evening, Johannes," said Wistik. "I came to remind you of our agreement. You cannot have found the book yet, for the spring has not come. But are you keeping it in mind? What is the thick book I have seen you reading in? That cannot be the true book. Do not think that."
"I do not think so, Wistik," said Johannes. He turned over and tried to go to sleep again, but he could not get the little key out of his head.
And from this time on, as he read in the thick book, he kept thinking about it, and he saw clearly that it was not the true book.
VIII
"Now he will come," thought Johannes, the first time the snow had melted away, and here and there little clusters of snowdrops began to appear. "Will he not come now?" he asked the snowdrops. They could not tell, but remained with drooping heads looking at the earth as if they were ashamed of their haste, and wished to creep away again.
If they only could have done so! The numbing east winds soon began to blow again, and the poor, rash things were buried deep in the drifted snow.
Weeks later came the violets, their sweet perfume floating through the shrubbery. And when the sun had shone long and warmly on the mossy ground, the fair primulas opened out by hundreds and by thousands.
The shy violets, with their rich fragrance, were mysterious harbingers of coming magnificence, yet the cheerful primulas were gladness itself. The awakened earth had taken to herself the first sunbeams, and made of them a golden ornament.
"Now," thought Johannes, "now he is surely coming!" In suspense he watched the buds on the branches, as they swelled slowly day by day, and freed themselves from the bark, till the first pale-green points appeared among the brown scales. Johannes stayed a long time looking at those little green leaves, and never saw them stir. But even if he only just turned around they seemed to have grown bigger. "They do not dare while I am watching them," he thought.
The foliage had already begun to cast a shade, yet Windekind had not come. No dove had alighted near him—no little mouse had spoken to him. When he addressed the flowers they scarcely nodded, and made no reply whatever. "My penance is not over yet," he thought.
Then one sunny spring morning he passed the pond and the house. The windows were all wide open. He wondered if any of the people had come yet.
The wild cherry that stood by the pond was entirely covered with tender leaves. Every twig was furnished with little, delicate-green wings. On the grass beside the bush sat a young girl. Johannes saw only her light-blue frock and her blonde hair. A robin was perched on her shoulder, and pecked out of her hand. Suddenly, she turned her head around and saw Johannes.
"Good day, little boy," said she, nodding in a friendly way.
Again Johannes thrilled from head to foot. Those were Windekind's eyes—that was Windekind's voice!
"Who are you?" he asked, his lips quivering with feeling.
"I am Robinetta, and this is my bird. He will not be afraid of you. Do you like birds?"
The redbreast was not afraid of Johannes. It flew to his arm. That was like old times. And it must be Windekind—that azure being!
"Tell me your name, Laddie," said Windekind's voice.
"Do you not know me? Do you not know that I am Johannes?"
"How could I know that?"
What did that mean? Still, it was the well-known, sweet voice. Those were the dark, heavenly-deep, blue eyes.
"Why do you look at me so, Johannes? Have you ever seen me before?"
"Yes, I do believe so."
"Surely, you must have dreamed it!"
"Dreamed?" thought Johannes. "Can I have dreamed everything? Can I be dreaming now?"
"Where were you born?" he asked.
"A long way from here, in a great city."
"Among human beings?"
Robinetta laughed. It was Windekind's laugh. "I believe so. Were not you?"
"Alas, yes! I was too!"
"Are you sorry for that? Do you not like human beings?"
"No. Who could like them?"
"Who? Well, Johannes; but you are an odd child! Do you like animals better?"
"Oh, much better—and flowers."
"Really, I do, too—sometimes. But that is not right. Father says we must love our friends."
"Why is that not right? I like whom I choose whether it is right or not."
"Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents, then, nor any one who cares for you? Are you not fond of them?"
"Yes," said Johannes, remembering. "I love my father, but not because it is right, nor because he is a human being."
"Why, then?"
"I do not know—because he is not like other human beings—because he, too, is fond of birds and flowers."
"And so am I, Johannes. Look!" And Robinetta called the robin to her hand, and petted it.
"I know it," said Johannes. "And I love you very much, too.
"Already? That is very soon," laughed the girl. "Whom do you love best of all?"
"I love—" Johannes hesitated. Should he speak Windekind's name? The fear that he might let slip that name to human ears was never out of his thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired being in blue, Windekind himself? Who else could give him that feeling of rest and happiness?
"You!" said he, all at once, looking frankly into the deep blue eyes. Courageously, he ventured a full surrender. He was anxious, though, and eagerly awaited the reception of his precious gift.
Again Robinetta laughed heartily, but she pressed his hand, and her look was no colder, her voice no less cordial.
"Well, Johannes," said she, "what have I done to earn this so suddenly?"
Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with growing confidence.
Robinetta stood up, and laid her arm about Johannes' shoulders. She was taller than he.
Thus they strolled through the woods, and picked great clusters of cowslips, until they could have hidden under the mountain of sun-filled yellow flowers. The little redbreast went with them—flying from branch to branch, and peering at them with its shining little black eyes.
They did not speak much, but now and then looked askance at each other. They were both perplexed by this adventure, and uncertain what they ought to think of each other.
Much to her regret, Robinetta had soon to turn back.
"I must go now, Johannes, but will you not take another walk with me? I think you are a nice little boy," said she in taking her leave.
"Tweet! Tweet!" said the robin as he flew after her.
When she had gone, and her image alone remained to him, he doubted no more who she was. She was the very same to whom he had given his friendship. The name Windekind rang fainter, and became confused with Robinetta.