And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of people whom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving around them; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had first caught their attention.
A pretty Barbel， with spotted skin， and an enviably round back， declared that the “human fry” were still there.
“I can see a well set-up human figure quite well，” said the Barbel. “She was called 'contumacious lady，' or something of that kind. She had a mouth and staring eyes， like ours， and a great balloon at the back of her head， and something like a shut-up umbrella in front; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her. She ought to take all the rubbish off， and go as we do; then she would look something like a respectable barbel， so far as it is possible for a person to look like one!”
“What's become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? He sat on a wheel-chair， and had paper， and pen， and ink， and wrote down everything. They called him a 'writer.'”
“They're going about with him still，” said a hoary old maid of a Carp， who carried her misfortune about with her， so that she was quite hoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook， and still swam patiently about with it in her gullet. “A writer? That means， as we fishes describe it， a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men.”
Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the artificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged to take advantage of the hours of night to get their work done by daybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and with songs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad.
“So， at any rate， I have seen you， you pretty gold-fishes，” she said. “Yes， I know you;” and she waved her hand to them. “I have known about you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. How beautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kiss every one of you. You others， also. I know you all; but you do not know me.”
The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a word of it.
The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the open air， where the different countries—the country of black bread， the codfish coast， the kingdom of Russia leather， and the banks of eau-de-Cologne， and the gardens of rose oil—exhaled their perfumes from the world-wonder flower.
When， after a night at a ball， we drive home half asleep and half awake， the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear them， and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the murdered man closes， the picture of what it saw last clings to it for a time like a photographic picture.
So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew， thus it will be repeated tomorrow.
The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses， and thought she knew them， and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red pomegranate flowers， like those that little Mary had worn in her dark hair.
Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around， and feverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.
A weariness that increased continually， took possession of her. She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within， or to lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had completed its circle.