“No, no! she will kill you, good giant; she will kill you! She is an awful bad-giant witch!”
I asked them where I was to go then. They told me that, beyond the baby-forest, away where the moon came from, lay a smooth green country, pleasant to the feet, without rocks or trees. But when I asked how I was to set out for it.
“The moon will tell you, we think,” they said.
They were taking me up the second branch of the river bed: when they saw that the moon had reached her height, they stopped to return.
“We have never gone so far from our trees before,” they said. “Now mind you watch how you go, that you may see inside your eyes how to come back to us.”
“And beware of the giant-woman that lives in the desert,” said one of the bigger girls as they were turning, “I suppose you have heard of her!”
“No,” I answered.
“Then take care not to go near her. She is called the Cat-woman. She is awfully ugly—and scratches.”
As soon as the bigger ones stopped, the smaller had begun to run back. The others now looked at me gravely for a moment, and then walked slowly away. Last to leave me, Lona held up the baby to be kissed, gazed in my eyes, whispered, “The Cat-woman will not hurt you,” and went without another word. I stood a while, gazing after them through the moonlight, then turned and, with a heavy heart, began my solitary journey. Soon the laughter of the Little Ones overtook me, like sheep-bells innumerable, rippling the air, and echoing in the rocks about me. I turned again, and again gazed after them: they went gamboling along, with never a care in their sweet souls. But Lona walked apart with her baby.
Pondering as I went, I recalled many traits of my little friends.
Once when I suggested that they should leave the country of the bad giants, and go with me to find another, they answered, “But that would be to not ourselves!”—so strong in them was the love of place that their country seemed essential to their very being! Without ambition or fear, discomfort or greed, they had no motive to desire any change; they knew of nothing amiss; and, except their babies, they had never had a chance of helping anyone but myself:—How were they to grow? But again, Why should they grow? In seeking to improve their conditions, might I not do them harm, and only harm? To enlarge their minds after the notions of my world—might it not be to distort and weaken them? Their fear of growth as a possible start for gianthood might be instinctive!
The part of philanthropist is indeed a dangerous one; and the man who would do his neighbour good must first study how not to do him evil, and must begin by pulling the beam out of his own eye.
XV
A Strange Hostess
I travelled on attended by the moon. As usual she was full—I had never seen her other—and tonight as she sank I thought I perceived something like a smile on her countenance.
When her under edge was a little below the horizon, there appeared in the middle of her disc, as if it had been painted upon it, a cottage, through the open door and window of which she shone; and with the sight came the conviction that I was expected there. Almost immediately the moon was gone, and the cottage had vanished; the night was rapidly growing dark, and my way being across a close succession of small ravines, I resolved to remain where I was and expect the morning. I stretched myself, therefore, in a sandy hollow, made my supper off the fruits the children had given me at parting, and was soon asleep.
I woke suddenly, saw above me constellations unknown to my former world, and had lain for a while gazing at them, when I became aware of a figure seated on the ground a little way from and above me. I was startled, as one is on discovering all at once that he is not alone. The figure was between me and the sky, so that I saw its outline well. From where I lay low in the hollow, it seemed larger than human.
It moved its head, and then first I saw that its back was toward me.
“Will you not come with me?” said a sweet, mellow voice, unmistakably a woman’s.
Wishing to learn more of my hostess,
“I thank you,” I replied, “but I am not uncomfortable here. Where would you have me go? I like sleeping in the open air.”
“There is no hurt in the air,” she returned; “but the creatures that roam the night in these parts are not such as a man would willingly have about him while he sleeps.”
“I have not been disturbed,” I said.
“No; I have been sitting by you ever since you lay down.”
“That is very kind of you! How came you to know I was here? Why do you show me such favour?”
“I saw you,” she answered, still with her back to me, “in the light of the moon, just as she went down. I see badly in the day, but at night perfectly. The shadow of my house would have hidden you, but both its doors were open. I was
