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 nevercome 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 welcome, 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 stingingnettles 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?