[Nurumaiel]

Little Marigold's steps had begun to slow, and her eyes became mild and dreamy. Falco, who had to his great annoyance found that he was huffing and puffing, knew exactly what was wrong and was more than a little pleased for it. After all, it wouldn't do to overwork himself. Ah, in those old days! He could dance longer than any other lad... except perhaps Fosco. Fosco had a perpetual store of energy.

"Well, now, it's been a lovely little party," said Falco, "but you must be wanting your bed."

"Oh," said Marigold, attempting a light, airy smile and succeeding only in looking comically distressed. "I don't have anywhere to stay."

"Of course you do," said Falco. "Why, I'm a rich hobbit and I'll get you the prettiest room at the Inn." He glanced about him as he spoke. The party was already dispersing, and many of the tweenagers were already gone to bed. How odd it was that they, the most energetic of all hobbits, should be gone while he, old and stiff, and Marigold, just barely out of babyhood, were still dancing! But she had not wanted to stop once she started. She hadn't been able to dance very often, she said. Only every so often when her mother was in a laughing, light mood.

Buttercup came to take the little girl away, and Falco went with them to survey and pay for the room. It was a pretty room, though perhaps not the prettiest. It was small and homey, with a little bed and table, and flitting curtains at the windows. She could see the garden from those windows, and when he left her she was sitting by them, gazing out with dreamy eyes while Buttercup made up the bed.

He went out again for one last drink with the lads, and another song, and then, bidding them all good night, he tramped off, wondering vaguely if it were unhealthy for a hobbit of his age to stay up so late and drink so many mugs.

His room, which was right next to Marigold's, was also comfortable, though it was not much bigger than the little girl's. It didn't matter very much to him, however, whether it was big or not. He needed a room for the nights, when he wouldn't care if it was large or small. He'd be out first thing in the morning to see if those young musician lads had come back.

As he closed his eyes he could hear Marigold softly singing in a childish little voice through the walls, and he thought of how very talented young Caity was with her whistle. And then he was asleep.