Then Eva and I took courage and looked up into the bluebell eyes above us, and all three of us broke into laughter.
“It’s all very well to laugh,” said Eva’s mother, with a sudden affectation of severity, mindful of the necessity of impressing Eva, “but this is a very demoralising little girl. Haven’t I told you, Eva, that you were not to disturb father at his work?”
Eva was a brick and didn’t give me away. She kept a set little face of respectful rebellion, imperturbable, unapologetic. She wasn’t going to betray me.
“Really it was not her fault,” I said shamefacedly; “it was all mine. Punish me, if you must; but not her.” And then we laughed again.
“What are you going to do with this poor beast here?” asked Eva’s mother, pointing to the glass jar. “Let him go, I suppose,” I said.
I saw Eva’s eyes light up for a moment. There was just one last bit of fun left before she must return to the humdrum of the nursery.
So then we took the lid from the jar, and presently the adder, sniffing the air, stole cautiously out on the grass, and then at length, realising that he was really at liberty, flashed his way from our sight into the underbrush, with the joy of all natural things at being free once more--a bird released from his cage, or a happy fish thrown back into the stream. The beetles and the various other bugs seemed no less to appreciate their freedom.
Alas! it was poor Eva’s turn to go back into captivity. Mine too, for my desk gloomed there inside. We gave each other a parting look, as her mother took her off down the wood. So two exiles condemned to Siberia might exchange glances of sympathy. But all the same we had had a good time, and we both knew that, in spite of all law and authority, we intended to have many more up there in the woodland, Eva and I.
The dream has come to an end, and I have just received a letter asking for a return of the dream documents. In other words, Miranda has written asking me to send back her letters. She is going to be married soon. Incidentally, so am I.
Our dream came to an end quite a while ago. But it was a very long and beautiful dream--dreams seldom last so long--and I did hope that Miranda would allow me to keep its beautiful records. But no! I have to send all that brilliant writing back again; all the fancy and wit and tenderness which make such a living history of a fairy tale.