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They watched the little animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance; watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and wriggles of recognition.

Looking up the river, they could see Otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path.

Then the Mole, with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily ended.

'I feel strangely tired, Rat,' said the Mole, leaning wearily over his oars as the boat drifted.

'It's being up all night, you'll say, perhaps; but that's nothing.

We do as much half the nights of the week, at this time of the year.

No; I feel as if I had been through something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet nothing particular has happened.'

'Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful,' murmured the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes.

'I feel just as you do, Mole; simply dead tired, though not body tired.

It's lucky we've got the stream with us, to take us home.

Isn't it jolly to feel the sun again, soaking into one's bones! And hark to the wind playing in the reeds!'

It's like music-far away music,' said the Mole nodding drowsily.

'So I was thinking,' murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.

Dance-music-the lilting sort that runs on without a stop-but with words in it, too-it passes into words and out of them again-I catch them at intervals-then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing but the reeds' soft thin whispering.'

'You hear better than I,' said the Mole sadly.

'I cannot catch the words.'

'Let me try and give you them,' said the Rat softly, his eyes still closed.

Now it is turning into words again-faint but clear-Lest the awe should dwell-And turn your frolic to fret-You shall look on my power at the helping hour-But then you shall forget! Now the reeds take it up-forget, forget, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a whisper.

Then the voice returns-

Lest limbs be reddened and rent-I spring the trap that is set-As I loose the snare you may glimpse me there-For surely you shall forget! Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows each minute fainter.

Helper and healer, I cheer-Small waifs in the woodland wet-Strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it-Bidding them all forget! Nearer, Mole, nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk.'

'But what do the words mean?' asked the wondering Mole.

'That I do not know,' said the Rat simply.

'I passed them on to you as they reached me.

Ah! now they return again, and this time full and clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing, simple-passionate-perfect--'

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