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“One moment stay, dear fairy,” said Hulda. “Where am I most likely to see the gnome?”

“In the south,” replied the fairy, “for they love hot sunshine. I can stay no longer. Farewell.”

So saying, the fairy again became a moth and fluttered to the window. Little Hulda opened it, the brown moth settled for a moment upon her lips as if it wished to kiss her, and then it flew out into the sunshine, away and away.

Little Hulda watched her till her pretty wings were lost in the blue distance; then she turned and took her bracelet, and put it on her wrist, where, from that day forward, she always wore it night and day.

Hulda now grew tall, and became a fair young maiden, and she often wished for the day when she might go down to the south, that she might have a better chance of seeing the cruel gnome, and as she sat at work in her room alone she often asked the bird to sing to her, but he never sang any other songs than the two she had heard at first.

And now two full years had passed away, and it was again the height of the Norway summer, but the fairy had not made her appearance.

As the days began to shorten, Hulda’s cheeks lost their bright color, and her steps their merry lightness; she became pale and wan. Her parents were grieved to see her change so fast, but they hoped, as the weary winter came on, that the cheerful fire and gay company would revive her; but she grew worse and worse, till she could scarcely walk alone through the rooms where she had played so happily, and all the physicians shook their heads and said, “Alas! alas! the lord and lady of the castle may well look sad: nothing can save their fair daughter, and before the spring comes she will sink into an early grave.”

The first yellow leaves now began to drop, and showed that winter was near at hand.

“My sweet Hulda,” said her mother to her one day, as she was lying upon a couch looking out into the sunshine, “is there anything you can think of that would do you good, or any place we can go to that you think might revive you?”

“I had only one wish,” replied Hulda, “but that, dear mother, I cannot have.”

“Why not, dear child?” said her father. “Let us hear what your wish was.”

“I wished that before I died I might be able to go into the south and see that wicked pedlar, that if possible I might repair the mischief I had done to the fairy by restoring her the wand.”

“Does she wish to go into the south?” said the physicians. “Then it will be as well to indulge her, but nothing can save her life; and if she leaves her native country she will return to it no more.”

“I am willing to go,” said Hulda, “for the fairy’s sake.”

So they put her on a pillion, and took her slowly on to the south by short distances, as she could bear it. And as she left the old castle, the wind tossed some yellow leaves against her, and then whirled them away across the heath to the forest. Hulda said:

“Yellow leaves, yellow leaves,
Whither away?
Through the long wood paths
How fast do ye stray!”

The yellow leaves answered:

“We go to lie down
Where the spring snowdrops grow,
Their young roots to cherish
Through frost and through snow.”

Then Hulda said again to the leaves:

“Yellow leaves, yellow leaves,
Faded and few,
What will the spring flowers
Matter to you?”

And the leaves said:

“We shall not see them,
When gaily they bloom,
But sure they will love us
For guarding their tomb.”

Then Hulda said:

“The yellow leaves are like me: I am going away from my place for the sake of the poor fairy, who now lies hidden in the dark Egyptian ruin; but if I am so happy as to recover her wand by my care, she will come back glad and white, like the snowdrops when winter is over, and she will love my memory when I am laid asleep in my tomb.”