Her big, golden eyes gazed, full of gentle trouble, into space. “I don’t know what He is up to,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Vasta was eager to comfort her. “He takes them out in the fields. There are lots of His kind there, and they all look and laugh and are very nice to the little ones.”

“I don’t know what He is up to,” Hella repeated.

“He’ll bring them back again. He always brings them back.”

The lioness smiled. “They’ll smell of fresh grass.”

“Then why are you so worried?”

The sparkle died in Hella’s eye. “I had children once before.”

“You don’t say! I didn’t know anything about that,” Vasta sputtered.

“You weren’t here then. Since then the trees have twice been green and bare again. I was so young in those days.”

“Ah!” Vasta drew a little nearer. “I wasn’t even in the world in those days.”

“Little mouse,” said Hella, turning her head, “you see much more than I do, much more, but you know much less.”

Vasta polished her nose briskly and said nothing.

“I had three charming children,” Hella continued, “remarkably handsome children. I loved them desperately. Yes, I love them even today; I can’t forget them.”

“Where are they?” interrupted Vasta.

“I don’t know,” growled the lioness. “He took them to the meadow every day, just as He does Burri and Barri. One day He returned alone without the children! It was terrible!”

Both were silent for a while. Hella was crying.

“What can He have done with them?” Vasta pondered.

“No one knows,” whispered Hella. “Three splendid children—gone! Three at one swoop! One never knows, never will know, what He is up to. Now I am afraid again, afraid for Burri and Barri.” She got up and began to pace back and forth behind the bars.

Vasta wanted to change the subject. “Yppa has a son,” she said.

The lioness halted. “At last she’ll be happy.”

“It really looks that way. She’s sitting there very quiet, hugging the little thing. She’s quite taken with it.”

“That’s good,” said Hella. “That was what she needed. That will console the poor thing for her lost freedom.” Hella rose, her whole body trembling softly. “Freedom . . .” She grew thoughtful. “I never knew what it is to be free. In spite of all that you and others tell me, I really believe that there isn’t any other world but this garden. I know nothing but this space shut off by those black bars and that other smaller room, inside, where I stay when it’s cold. And I’m content. Sometimes I feel very good, sometimes I’m even happy and cheerful when I’m lying in the warm sun, and especially when I’m with Pono or some other member of the family. Or when I’m with the ­children.”

She stopped and stretched herself.

“But there are other times,” she began again resolutely, “when I feel a terrible pang of longing, I don’t know what for!” She drew nearer to Vasta and whispered, “You belong outside there, little one, tell me the truth—what is freedom?”

Vasta was embarrassed, she cowered and stammered: “I can’t answer that.