"She will bear it because she must," replied Lily. "And she will, in time, learn to speak. But she has nothing to sustain her life, except one turning of the seasons. Unless-"

"Unless what?" Palindor asked her.

Lily gazed at the forest silently for several moments. "It is not to be spoken," she replied softly, as though to the forest itself. "Her life is her own. She will do as she must, just as surely as Time and Fate will order the rest. Let us go in now . . . it is getting cold out."

That evening, as they sat down to supper, the wood nymph stood at the window, staring at the forest, her features suffused with suppressed weeping. Lily watched her with an empathy that was acutely painful. "That was me not long ago," she said sadly. She arose, then, and went to the girl. "Come," she said, leading her to the table, "you mustn't dwell on what you've lost." She sat the nymph between Anest and herself, and poured her a flagon of wine. "This," said Lily wryly, "will

make you forgetful of your problems, at least, for a little while."

Anest too smiled ruefully.

"Is that a good idea?" asked Palindor, doubtfully.

Lily and Anest exchanged a look. "Perhaps not tomorrow," said Anest. "However . . . for now, each hour of each day will be a trial for her."




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