Galatea was dancing up the path, eating a strange fruit as rosy as her lips. She was merry again, once more the happy nymph who had greeted him, and she gave him a bright smile as he chose a sweet green ovoid for his breakfast.
“Come on!” she called. “To the river!”
She skipped away toward the unbelievable forest; Dan followed, marveling that her lithe speed was so easy a match for his stronger muscles. Then they were laughing in the pool, splashing about until Galatea drew herself to the bank, glowing and panting. He followed her as she lay relaxed; strangely, he was neither tired nor breathless, with no sense of exertion. A question recurred to him, as yet unasked.
“Galatea,” said his voice, “Whom will you take as mate?”
Her eyes went serious. “I don’t know,” she said. “At the proper time he will come. That is a law.”
“And will you be happy?”
“Of course.” She seemed troubled. “Isn’t everyone happy?”
“Not where I live, Galatea.”
“Then that must be a strange place—that ghostly world of yours. A rather terrible place.”
“It is, often enough,” Dan agreed. “I wish—” He paused. What did he wish? Was he not talking to an illusion, a dream, an apparition? He looked at the girl, at her glistening black hair, her eyes, her soft white skin, and then, for a tragic moment, he tried to feel the arms of that drab hotel chair beneath his hands—and failed. He smiled; he reached out his fingers to touch her bare arm, and for an instant she looked back at him with startled, sober eyes, and sprang to her feet.
“Come on! I want to show you my country.” She set off down the stream, and Dan rose reluctantly to follow.
What a day that was! They traced the little river from still pool to singing rapids, and ever about them were the strange twitterings and pipings that were the voices of the flowers. Every turn brought a new vista of beauty; every moment brought a new sense of delight. They talked or were silent; when they were thirsty, the cool river was at hand; when they were hungry, fruit offered itself. When they were tired, there was always a deep pool and a mossy bank; and when they were rested, a new beauty beckoned. The incredible trees towered in numberless forms of fantasy, but on their own side of the river was still the flower-starred meadow. Galatea twisted him a bright-blossomed garland for his head, and thereafter he moved always with a sweet singing about him. But little by little the red sun slanted toward the forest, and the hours dripped away. It was Dan who pointed it out, and reluctantly they turned homeward.
As they returned, Galatea sang a strange song, plaintive and sweet as the medley of river and flower music. And again her eyes were sad.
“What song is that?” he asked.
“It is a song sung by another Galatea,” she answered, “who is my mother.” She laid her hand on his arm. “I will make it into English for you.” She sang:
“The River lies in flower and fern,
In flower and fern it breathes a song.
It breathes a song of your return,
Of your return in years too long.
In years too long its murmurs bring
Its murmurs bring their vain replies,
Their vain replies the flowers sing,
The flowers sing, ‘The River lies!’ ”
Her voice quavered on the final notes; there was silence save for the tinkle of water and the flower bugles. Dan said, “Galatea—” and paused. The girl was again somber-eyed, tearful. He said huskily, “That’s a sad song, Galatea. Why was your mother sad? You said everyone was happy in Paracosma.”
“She broke a law,” replied the girl tonelessly. “It is the inevitable way to sorrow.” She faced him. “She fell in love with a phantom!” Galatea said. “One of your shadowy race, who came and stayed and then had to go back. So when her appointed lover came, it was too late; do you understand? But she yielded finally to the law, and is forever unhappy, and goes wandering from place to place about the world.” She paused. “I shall never break a law,” she said defiantly.
Dan took her hand. “I would not have you unhappy, Galatea. I want you always happy.”
She shook her head. “I am happy,” she said, and smiled a tender, wistful smile.
They were silent a long time as they trudged the way homeward. The shadows of the forest giants reached out across the river as the sun slipped behind them. For a distance they walked hand in hand, but as they reached the path of pebbly brightness near the house, Galatea drew away and sped swiftly before him. Dan followed as quickly as he might; when he arrived, Leucon sat on his bench by the portal, and Galatea had paused on the threshold. She watched his approach with eyes in which he again fancied the glint of tears.
“I am very tired,” she said, and slipped within.
Dan moved to follow, but the old man raised a staying hand.
“Friend from the shadows,” he said, “will you hear me a moment?”
Dan paused, acquiesced, and dropped to the opposite bench. He felt a sense of foreboding; nothing pleasant awaited him.
“There is something to be said,” Leucon continued, “and I say it without desire to pain you, if phantoms feel pain. It is this: Galatea loves you, though I think she has not yet realized it.”
“I love her too,” said Dan.
The Grey Weaver stared at him. “I do not understand. Substance, indeed, may love shadow,
