‘May I come?’ she said.

‘Yes, Winifred,’ I gasped, scarcely knowing what I said in my surprise and joy.

She came slipping round the pool, and in a few seconds was by my side.  Her clothes were saturated with last night’s rain, but though she looked very cold, she did not shiver, a proof that she had not lain down on the hills, but had walked about during the whole night.  There was no wildness of the maniac—­there was no idiotic stare.  But oh the witchery of the gaze!

If one could imagine the look on the face of a wanderer from the cloud-palaces of the sylphs, or the gaze in the eyes of a statue newly animated by the passion of the sculptor who had fashioned it, or the smile on the face of a wondering Eve just created upon the earth—­any one of these expressions would, perhaps, give the idea of that on Winifred’s face as she stood there.

‘May I sit down, Prince?’ said she.

‘Yes, Winnie,’ I replied; ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Been waiting for poor Winnie?’ she said, her eyes sparkling anew with pleasure; and she sat down close by my side, gazing hungrily at the food—­her hands resting on her lap.

I laid my hand upon one of hers; it was so damp and cold that it made me shudder.

‘Why, Winifred,’ I said, ‘how cold you are!’ ’The hills are so cold!’ said she, ’so cold when the stars go out, and the red streaks begin to come.’

‘May I warm your hands in mine, Winnie?’ I said, longing to clasp the dear fingers, but trembling lest anything I might say or do should bring about a repetition of last night’s catastrophe.

‘Will you, Prince?’ said she.  ‘How very, very kind!’ and in a moment the hand was between mine.

Remembering that it was through looking into my eyes that she recognised me in the cottage, I now avoided looking straight into hers.  All this time she kept gazing wistfully at the food spread out on the ground.

‘Are you hungry, Winifred?’ I said.

‘Oh yes; so hungry!’ said she, shaking her head in a sad meditative way.  ‘Poor Winifred is so hungry and cold and lonely!’

‘Will you breakfast with the Prince of the Mist, Winifred?’

‘Oh, may I, Prince?’ she asked, her face beaming with delight.

’To be sure you may, Winnie.  You may always breakfast with the Prince of the Mist if you like.’

‘Always?  Always?’ she repeated.

‘Yes, Winnie,’ I said, as I handed her some bread and meat, which she devoured ravenously.

‘Yes, dear Winnie,’ I continued, handing her a foaming horn of Sinfi’s ale, to which she did as full justice as she was doing to the bread and meat.  ’Yes, I want you to breakfast with me and dine with me always.’

‘Do you mean live with you, Prince?’ she asked, looking me dreamily in the face—­’live with you behind the white mist?  Is this our wedding breakfast, Prince?’