but on the further side, at the foot of a steep, rocky precipice, there was a thick bed of tall green and yellow ferns, and among the ferns he hoped to find a place to lie down in.  Very slowly he limped across the open space, crying with the pain he felt at every step; but when he reached the bed of ferns he all at once saw, sitting among the tall fronds on a stone, a strange-looking woman in a green dress, who was gazing very steadily at him with eyes full of love and compassion.  At her side there crouched a big yellow beast, covered all over with black, eye-like spots, with a big round head, and looking just like a cat, but a hundred times larger than the biggest cat he had ever seen.  The animal rose up with a low sound like a growl, and glared at Martin with its wide, yellow, fiery eyes, which so terrified him that he dared not move another step until the womaan, speaking very gently to him, told him not to fear.  She caressed the great beast, making him lie down again; then coming forward and taking Martin by the hand, she drew him up to her knees.

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“What is your name, poor little suffering child?” she asked, bending down to him, and speaking softly.  “Martin—­what’s yours?” he returned, still half sobbing, and rubbing his eyes with his little fists.

“I am called the Lady of the Hills, and I live here alone in the mountain.  Tell me, why do you cry, Martin?”

“Because I’m so cold, and—­and my legs hurt so, and—­and because I want to go back to my mother.  She’s over there,” said he, with another sob, pointing vaguely to the great plain beneath their feet, extending far, far away into the blue distance, where the crimson sun was now setting.

“I will be your mother, and you shall live with me here on the mountain,” she said, caressing his little cold hands with hers.  “Will you call me mother?”

“You are not my mother,” he returned warmly.  “I don’t want to call you mother.”

“When I love you so much, dear child?” she pleaded, bending down until her lips were close to his averted face.

“How that great spotted cat stares at me!” he suddenly said.  “Do you think it will kill me?”

“No, no, he only wants to play with you.  Will you not even look at me, Martin?”

He still resisted her, but her hand felt very warm and comforting—­it was such a large, warm, protecting hand.  So pleasant did it feel that after a little while he began to move his hand up her beautiful, soft, white arm until it touched her hair.  For her hair was unbound and loose; it was dark, and finer than the finest spun silk, and fell all over her shoulders and down her back to the stone she sat on.  He let his fingers stray in and out among it; and it felt like the soft, warm down that lines a little bird’s nest to his skin.  Finally, he touched her neck and allowed his hand to rest there, it was such a soft, warm neck.  At length, but reluctantly, for his little rebellious