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〃Now I may speak；〃 she exclaimed。 〃I am innocent。〃
Then the people； who saw what happened； bowed to her； as beforea saint； but she sank lifeless in her brothers' arms； overe withsuspense； anguish； and pain。
〃Yes； she is innocent；〃 said the eldest brother； and then herelated all that had taken place； and while he spoke there rose in theair a fragrance as from millions of roses。 Every piece of faggot inthe pile had taken root； and threw out branches； and appeared athick hedge； large and high； covered with roses； while above allbloomed a white and shining flower； that glittered like a star。 Thisflower the king plucked； and placed in Eliza's bosom； when she awokefrom her swoon； with peace and happiness in her heart。 And all thechurch bells rang of themselves； and the birds came in great troops。And a marriage procession returned to the castle； such as no kinghad ever before seen。
THE END。
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE WILL…O…THE WISP IS IN THE TOWN；
SAYS THE MOOR WOMAN
by Hans Christian Andersen
THERE was a man who once knew many stories； but they had slippedaway from him… so he said。 The Story that used to visit him of its ownaccord no longer came and knocked at his door。 And why did it eno longer？ It is true enough that for days and years the man had notthought of it； had not expected it to e and knock； and if he hadexpected it； it would certainly not have e； for without there waswar； and within was the care and sorrow that war brings with it。
The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey；for they thought of no danger； and； behold； when they arrived； thenest was burnt； the habitations of men were burnt； the hedges were allin disorder； and everything seemed gone； and the enemy's horses werestamping in the old graves。 Those were hard； gloomy times； but theycame to an end。
And now they were past and gone… so people said； yet no Story cameand knocked at the door； or gave any tidings of its presence。
〃I suppose it must be dead； or gone away with many otherthings；〃 said the man。
But the story never dies。 And more than a whole year went by；and he longed… oh； so very much！… for the Story。
〃I wonder if the Story will ever e back again and knock？〃
And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in whichit had e to him； sometimes young and charming； like springitself； sometimes as a beautiful maiden； with a wreath of thyme in herhair； and a beechen branch in her hand； and with eyes that gleamedlike deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine。
Sometimes it had e to him in the guise of a peddler； and hadopened its box and let silver ribbon e fluttering out； withverses and inscriptions of old remembrances。
But it was most charming of all when it came as an oldgrandmother； with silvery hair； and such large； sensible eyes。 Sheknew so well how to tell about the oldest times； long before theprincesses spun with the golden spindles； and the dragons layoutside the castles； guarding them。 She told with such an air oftruth； that black spots danced before the eyes of all who heard her；and the floor became black with human blood； terrible to see and tohear； and yet so entertaining； because such a long time had passedsince it all happened。
〃Will it ever knock at my door again？〃 said the man； and hegazed at the door； so that black spots came before his eyes and uponthe floor； he did not know if it was blood； or mourning crape from thedark heavy days。
And as he sat thus； the thought came upon him whether the Storymight not have hidden itself； like the princess in the old tale。 Andhe would now go in search of it； if he found it； it would beam innew splendor； lovelier than ever。
〃Who knows？ Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw thatbalances on the margin of the well。 Carefully； carefully！ Perhaps itlies hidden in a certain flower… that flower in one of the great bookson the book…shelf。〃
And the man went and opened one of the newest books； to gaininformation on this point； but there was no flower to be found。There he read about Holger Danske； and the man read that the talehad been invented and put together by a monk in France； that it wasa romance； 〃translated into Danish and printed in that language；〃 thatHolger Danske had never really lived； and consequently could nevere again； as we have sung； and have been so glad to believe。 AndWilliam Tell was treated just like Holger Danske。 These were allonly myths… nothing on which we could depend； and yet it is allwritten in a very learned book。
〃Well； I shall believe what I believe！〃 said the man。 〃There growsno plantain where no foot has trod。〃
And he closed the book and put it back in its place； and went tothe fresh flowers at the window。 Perhaps the Story might have hiddenitself in the red tulips； with the golden yellow edges； or in thefresh rose； or in the beaming camellia。 The sunshine lay among theflowers； but no Story。
The flowers which had been here in the dark troublous time hadbeen much more beautiful； but they had been cut off； one afteranother； to be woven into wreaths and placed in coffins； and theflag had waved over them！ Perhaps the Story had been buried with theflowers； but then the flowers would have known of it； and the coffinwould have heard it； and every little blade of grass that shot forthwould have told of it。 The Story never dies。
Perhaps it has been here once； and has knocked； but who had eyesor ears for it in those times？ People looked darkly； gloomily； andalmost angrily at the sunshine of spring； at the twittering birds； andall the cheerful green； the tongue could not even bear the oldmerry； popular songs； and they were laid in the coffin with so muchthat our heart held dear。 The Story may have knocked without obtaininga hearing； there was none to bid it wele； and so it may have goneaway。
〃I will go forth and seek it。 Out in the country！ out in the wood！and on the open sea beach！〃
Out in the country lies an old manor house； with red walls；pointed gables； and a red flag that floats on the tower。 Thenightingale sings among the finely…fringed beech…leaves； looking atthe blooming apple trees of the garden； and thinking that they bearroses。 Here the bees are mightily busy in the summer…time； and hoverround their queen with their humming song。 The autumn has much to tellof the wild chase； of the leaves of the trees； and of the races of menthat are passing away together。 The wild swans sing atChristmas…time on the open water； while in the old hall the guestsby the fireside gladly listen to songs and to old legends。
Down into the old part of the garden； where the great avenue ofwild chestnut trees lures the wanderer to tread its shades； went theman who was in search of the Story； for here the wind had oncemurmured something to him of 〃Waldemar Daa and his Daughters。〃 TheDryad in the tree； who was the Story…mother herself； had here told himthe 〃Dream of the Old Oak Tree。〃 Here； in the time of the ancestralmother； had stood clipped hedges； but now only ferns and stingingtles grew there； hiding the scattered fragments of old sculpturedfigures； the moss is growing in their eyes； but they can see as wellas ever； which was more than the man could do who was in search of theStory； for he could not find that。 Where could it be？
The crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees； andscreamed； 〃Krah！ da！… Krah！ da！〃
And he went out of the garden and over the grass…plot of the yard；into the alder grove； there stood a little six…sided house； with apoultry…yard and a duck…yard。 In the middle of the room sat the oldwoman who had the management of the whole； and who knew accuratelyabout every egg that was laid； and about every chicken that couldcreep out of an egg。 But she was not the Story of which the man was insearch； that she could attest with a Christian certificate ofbaptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer。
Without； not far from the house； is a hill covered withred…thorn and broom。 Here lies an old grave…stone； which was broughthere many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial town； aremembrance of one of the most honored councillors of the place； hiswife and his five daughters； all with folded hands and stiff ruffs；stand round him。 One could lo