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The flower-sprite beckoned to a firefly. "Would you be good enough," he asked, "to give us a little light? We have to push through these dark leaves here; we want to get to the inside of the jasmine-arbor." "But your glow is much brighter than mine." "I think so, too," put in Maya, more to hide her excitement than anything else.

Yet here it was almost midday; and she remembered slipping back into her chamber in the chill of dawn. So it had all been real, she had spent the night with the flower-sprite and had seen the two human beings, with their arms round each other, in the arbor of woodbine and jasmine.

"Who could have dreamed of this!" whispered the little bee. Just then she saw something that sent a pang through her. "Oh," she cried, "look! A star has fallen! It's straying about and can't find its way back to its place in the sky." "That's a firefly," said the flower-sprite, without a smile.

"But why are you crying?" "I don't know. Perhaps just because you are so beautiful. Who are you? Oh, do tell me, if I am not asking too much. You are an angel, aren't you? You must be." "Oh, no," said the little creature, quite serious. "I am only a sprite, a flower-sprite. But, dear little bee, what are you doing out here in the meadow so late at night?"

The sprite thanked him but declined. "Some other time!" he called. "Then it will be never," thought Maya as they flew away, "because at dawn the flower-sprite must die." The moth remained on the leaf looking after them until the glimmer of the fairy garments grew smaller and smaller and finally sank into the depths of the blue distance.

For a long time I doubted and resisted; though she tempted me, making real the dreams of my shy, worshipful childhood, teaching me the meanings of treasured stories which I had listened to from flower-sprite and river-god, leading and wooing me with lovelier lures than even Nature's; for tropical bird-song and falling water was harsh to her voice, and dew-dripped lilies dim to her brow.

But the sprite drew himself up, his expression was serious and serene, his eyes shone with confidence. He took Maya's trembling hand and said: "Come. We'll fly together. Your wish shall be granted." And so Maya and the flower-sprite started off together in the bright mid-summer night, flying low over the blossomy meadow.

No, I am not sad," he decided, "not now." Meanwhile Maya and the flower-sprite flew through the dense shrubbery of a garden. The glory of it in the dimmed moonlight was beyond the power of mortal lips to say. An intoxicatingly sweet cool breath of dew and slumbering flowers transformed all things into unutterable blessings.