“You don’t look like it,” said the lady.
“How old are you, please?” returned Tangle.
“Thousands of years old,” answered the lady.
“You don’t look like it,” said Tangle.
“Don’t I? I think I do. Don’t you see how beautiful I am?”
And her great blue eyes looked down on the little Tangle, as if all the stars in the sky were melted in them to make their brightness.
“Ah! but,” said Tangle, “when people live long they grow old. At least I always thought so.”
“I have no time to grow old,” said the lady. “I am too busy for that. It is very idle to grow old.—But I cannot have my little girl so untidy. Do you know I can’t find a clean spot on your face to kiss?”
“Perhaps,” suggested Tangle, feeling ashamed, but not too much so to say a word for herself—“perhaps that is because the tree made me cry so.”
“My poor darling!” said the lady, looking now as if the moon were melted in her eyes, and kissing her little face, dirty as it was, “the naughty tree must suffer for making a girl cry.”
“And what is your name, please?” asked Tangle.
“Grandmother,” answered the lady.
“Is it really?”
“Yes, indeed. I never tell stories, even in fun.”
“How good of you!”