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Updated: May 10, 2025
Ivra was swift and strong and unafraid. Her cheeks reddened like apples in the cold. She was a fine playfellow. Not until they were hungry did they think of home. Then they ran, hand in hand at last, jumping the garden hedge like deer, their hearts beating with the expectation of running straight into Helma's arms. But no Helma was there.
She turned her face to me and she turned it on the child, and my Helma's face burned into my heart. Because it was full of fear, and it was full of happiness of glaede. I tell you that the fear in my Helma's face made me ice here" he beat his breast with clenched hand "but the happiness in it burned on me like fire. And I could not move I could not move.
It was noon when they sank down in the garden at their own white door stone. Tree Mother left them there and flew away with the littlest Forest Child, the one who liked to wander alone by himself. Nora was in the house when they ran in. She had cleaned it with a different cleaning from what it had had for Helma's first return.
He asked me about the Forest and you children. And he said that Eric sometime would surely want to go back to humans, and when he did he would help him. He understands boys. It is to him you had better go, Eric, and when you are really ready I will tell you how, and start you on your way." Eric sighed with contentment, and leaned his head against Helma's shoulder.
That's all; but them big eyes of Helma's don't miss it. "You you don't believe he took the money, do you?" says she, wistful and pleadin'. At which Vee reaches over and pats her soothin' on the hand. "I don't believe a word of it," says she. "He's a good Daddums," goes on Helma, spreadin' the last of the marmalade on a buttered muffin.
And, say, there wa'n't any use tryin' to kid myself into thinkin' maybe she don't mean it. I'd seen how strong this story of little Helma's had got to her; and, believe me, when Vee gets real stirred up over anything she's some earnest party no four-flushin' about her! And it don't seem to make much diff'rence who blocks the path.
Now these World Stories of Helma's were wonderful stories, but all true. They began way back when the Earth was young. There were stories about the Earth itself, how it hung in space and turned, making day and night.
So perhaps it is as well you do not know now just where Helma's little house is standing deep in the wood under the snow. Ivra always said that the nicest thing about the stories was the interruptions. Helma never minded them, and she answered all the questions Ivra asked.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully, going across the room, whisking a pitcher out of the cupboard and emptying her jug of milk into it. "This is the milk for them, and it's as much as ever that I got here with it. The wind is in a fine mood-pushed me here and there all the way through the wood, and tried to steal my cape from me, say nothing of Helma's milk!
A dark cloak covered her, but the hood had fallen back, and her face in the starlight was very beautiful and very young, younger even than Helma's, whose face Eric had thought all that day too young and glad to be a mother's. How could this be the Tree Man's mother, he wondered, the Tree Girl's grandmother! Then he saw that her hair was white, whiter than all the snow that lay in the forest.
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