“Indeed,” said the Duke, “I should not have thought you so very pretty.”
[Vain Kesta, [p. 43.]]

THE WINDFAIRIES
AND OTHER TALES

BY
MARY DE MORGAN
AUTHOR OF “ON A PINCUSHION,” “THE NECKLACE OF PRINCESS FIORIMONDE.”
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
OLIVE COCKERELL
LONDON
SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED
38 Great Russell Street
1900

TO ANGELA
DENNIS
AND CLARE
THESE LITTLE TALES
ARE DEDICATED
BY THEIR WRITER

CONTENTS

THE WINDFAIRIES

There was once a windmill which stood on the downs by the sea, far from any town or village, and in which the miller lived alone with his little daughter. His wife had died when the little girl, whose name was Lucilla, was a baby, and so the miller lived by himself with his child, of whom he was very proud. As her father was busy with his work, and as little Lucilla had no other children to play with, she was alone nearly all day, and had to amuse herself as best she could, and one of her greatest pleasures was to sit and watch the great sails of the windmill figures like them, and they held each other by the hand, and were dancing and springing from the ground as lightly as if they had been made of feather-down.

“Come, sisters, come,” cried the one nearest Lucilla. “See, here is a little human child out here alone at twelve o’clock at night. Come and let us play with her.”

“Who are you?” asked Lucilla; “my name is Lucilla, and I live in the mill with my father.”

“We are windfairies,” said the first grey figure.

“Windfairies!” said Lucilla, “what are they?”

“We blow the winds and sweep the earth. When there are many of us together we make a great hurricane, and human beings are frightened. We it is who turn your mill wheel for you, and make all the little waves on the sea. See, if you will come with us we will take you for a ride on one of the sails of your mill. That is, if you will be brave, and not cry.”

“I will not cry one bit,” said Lucilla, and she sprang up, and held out her arms.

At once she was lifted up, and felt herself going higher and higher, till she rested on one of the great windmill sails, and, with the little grey elves beside her, was sweeping through the air, clinging to the sail.

“She is quite good,” whispered one, as she held Lucilla in her tiny white arms. “I really think we might teach her to dance, for she has not cried at all.”

“No, she would surely tell some one if we did,” said another. “Little human child, would you like us to teach you how to dance as we dance?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Lucilla; and now they were sweeping down near the ground, and the fairies slid off the sail with Lucilla in their arms, and let her slide gently to earth. “Teach me to dance, I beg. I will never tell anybody.”

“Ah, but that is what all mortals say,” whispered one who had not spoken yet, “no mortal can keep a secret. Never yet was one known who could be silent.”

“Try me,” cried Lucilla again, “I will never tell. Indeed I will not,” and she looked entreatingly from one to another of the elves.

“But if you did,” said they, “if you broke your promise to us when once you had made it, we should punish you severely.”

“But I promise faithfully,” repeated Lucilla, “I will never tell any one.”

“Well then, you may try,” they said. “Only remember, if you break your word to us, and tell any mortal who it was that taught you how to dance, you will never dance again, for your feet will become heavy as lead, and not only that, but some great misfortune will overtake whatever you love best in this world. But if you keep faith with us, then the windfairies will never forget you, but will come to your help in your direst hour of need.”

“Teach me, teach me,” cried Lucilla; “indeed I will never, never tell, and I long to dance as you do.”

“Come then,” they said, and some came behind her, and some went in front of her, and some took her arms and some her feet, and all at once Lucilla felt as if she were made of feather-down. She swayed up and down as lightly as they, and it seemed to her quite easy. Never had she been so happy, and she would gladly have danced for hours, but suddenly, just as the sun was beginning to show a red light in the sky, she heard her father’s horse galloping over the downs, and in an instant the windfairies had vanished.

When the miller came up to her, he was angry with her for being out on the grass instead of warm in bed, but Lucilla dared not tell him what had kept her, or say that she had been playing with windfairies.

Years passed, and Lucilla never saw the windfairies again, though she watched for them every night. She grew up to be a beautiful young woman, and her father was very proud of her. She was as tall and as lithe as a willow wand, and when she ran or danced it seemed as if she were as light as a feather blown in the wind. There were few people to see her, or tell her she was beautiful, for save the fisher folk who lived in little cottages on the beach, scarce anybody came to the downs. But all who saw her admired her beauty, and most of all her wonderful dancing. Sometimes she would go out on the downs, and dance and run there by herself, and her father would look at her and say: “Heaven help the maid! I don’t know whom she has learned it from, but I have never seen a dancer who can come nigh her.” Then sometimes she would go down to the sea-shore, and this she loved to do best of all, and there she would dance with the waves, and move with them as they slid up to her feet and drew back, and to those who watched, it seemed as if she and they were one together.

The time came when her father wished her to be married, and among the young fishermen and the country folk who came to the mill from the farms across the country, she had suitors enough, but always she said when a young man came to woo her, “First let me see how you can dance, for as dancing is the thing I love best in the world, it would be a pity that I and my husband should not be able to dance together,” and as none of them could dance as she did, she sent them all away, saying she would wait for a husband till she could find a man who could dance to her liking.

But one day there was a great storm, and a big ship was blown on to the shore close to the mill, and among the sailors was a young fellow with black curly hair and bright eyes and white teeth, and when he saw Lucilla, he said to himself, “I will wed that girl and take her home for my wife.” So one day as they sat on the downs together he begged her to marry him, and go back with him to his own land; he said he would give up going to sea, and would live with her in a little cottage and make their bread by fishing. Then Lucilla said, as she had said to all her other suitors, “First let me see how you can dance, for I will never marry any man who cannot dance with me.” The sailor swore he could dance as well as any man in the world, for all sailors can dance, he said, and they began to dance together on the downs. The sailor danced well and merrily, but Lucilla danced faster, and seemed as if she were made of feather-down; and then the sailor, seeing that his dancing was as nothing to hers, caught her by the waist, and held her still, crying, “My sweetheart, I cannot dance as you can, but my arms are strong enough to hold you still and keep you from dancing with any man but me.”

So Lucilla married the sailor, and went with him to live in his little cottage by the sea, many miles away from the mill, and as her father was growing old and no longer cared to work, he went with her too.

For some time the sailor and Lucilla lived together very happily, and they had two little children, and her husband fished and sold his fish, and often still, Lucilla would go down to the waves and dance with them as she had done in her old home. She tried to teach her little children to dance as she did, but they could not learn because the windfairies had never touched them. But one winter her husband’s boat was dashed to pieces, and the sea froze so that all the fish died, and they became so poor that they could barely get enough to eat. Then it chanced that a big ship came to the village where they lived, and the captain wanted men for a long journey, and her husband told Lucilla that he had best go with him, and then he would have enough money to buy another boat, and then next year they must hope for better luck. So Lucilla was left alone in the cottage with her father and her two little children, and she felt very lonely and sad without her husband, and often she thought of the mill and the windfairies, and when the wind blew, she would go down to the water’s edge and hold out her arms and pray them to take care of her husband’s ship, and bring it safe home again.

“Oh, kind windfairies,” she cried, “see, I have kept faith with you, so do you now keep faith with me, and do me no hurt.” And often she would dance by the edge of the waves, as she used to do in her old home, and think that the windfairies were dancing with her, and holding up her steps.

Now it chanced that one day, as Lucilla was dancing on the shore, there rode by two horsemen, and they stopped and watched her as she danced, with the waves coming close to her feet. Then they got down from their horses, and asked who she was, and where she had learned such dancing. She told them she was only the wife of a poor fisherman, but she had danced for long years, since she was a little child, when she had lived in a windmill, on the downs far away. They rode away, but next day they came again, and brought others with them, and begged Lucilla that she would go down to the water’s edge and dance with the waves as she had done yesterday. So she ran down the beach, and danced in time to the sea as it moved, and the strangers all applauded, and said to each other, “It is wonderful, it is marvellous.”

They then told her that they came from a country where the King loved nothing so much as beautiful dancing, and that he would give great sums of money to any one who danced well, and if she would go back with them to his court, and dance before the King, she should have a sack of gold to take home with her, and this would make her a rich woman, and her husband would never have need to work any more.

At first she refused, and said her husband was away, and would not know where she was gone, and she did not like to leave her two little children; but still the courtiers persuaded her, and said it would not be for long, and her father persuaded her too, since he said it would make them all rich if she brought home a sack of gold. So at last Lucilla agreed that she would go back with them to the King’s court and dance there, but she made them promise that before the spring came they would send her back to her own little cottage. On hearing this, the strangers were much delighted, and bid Lucilla make ready to start at once, and that night she said good-bye to her little ones, and left them, to go with the travellers. Her eyes were red with crying at leaving her home, and before she started, she went out alone on to the cliffs, and stretched out her arms, and called to the windfairies to go with her and help her, for she feared what she was going to do, and she begged them to be true to her, as she had been true to them.

They sailed for many days, till at last they came to a country of which Lucilla had never even heard, and to a big town, which seemed to her as if it must hold all the people in the world, so crowded was it, and above the town on the hill, they pointed out to her a royal palace, and told her it was where the King dwelt, and there she would have to dance ere the week was out.

“And it is most lucky we saw you just now,” said they, “for the King is just going to be married, and in a few days the Princess will arrive, and there will be festivities and rejoicing for days, and at some of these you will appear before their Majesties, and be sure you dance your very best.”

Then Lucilla went with them into a great hall close to the palace, where musicians were playing on every kind of instrument, and here the courtiers bid her dance on a platform at one end of the hall, in time to the music; and when they had seen it, the musicians one and all lay down their instruments, and rose together, clapping and applauding, and all declared that it was the greatest of luck that the travellers had met with Lucilla, and that it would delight the King more than anything they had prepared for him.

By and by the Princess who was to marry the King arrived, and the wedding was celebrated with much magnificence, and after the wedding there was a feast, and in the evening there was to be singing and dancing, and all sorts of play for the royal couple and the court to see, and then Lucilla was to dance. The courtier who brought her wished her to be dressed in the most gorgeous dress, with gold and jewels, but she pleaded that she might wear a light grey gown like the windfairies, because she remembered how they looked when they danced on the downs.

When the evening came when she was to dance before the King, she threw wide her window and held out her arms, and cried out, “Now help me, dear windfairies, as you have done before; keep faith with me, as I have kept faith with you.” But in truth she could scarce keep from crying with thoughts of her husband at sea, and her little ones at the cottage at home.

The hall was brilliantly lighted, and in the middle on the throne sat the King and the young Queen. The musicians began to play, and then Lucilla stepped forth on the platform and began to dance. She felt as light as the sea foam, and when she swayed and curved to the sound of the music, it seemed to her as if she heard only the swish of the waves as they beat upon the shore, and the murmur of the wind as it played with the water, and she thought of her husband out at sea, with the wind blowing his ship along, and of her little babies living in the cottage on the beach.

When she stopped, there was such a noise of applauding and cheering in the hall, as had never been heard there before, and the King sent for her, and asked her where she came from, and who had taught her such wonderful steps, but she only answered that she was the daughter of a poor miller, who lived in a windmill, and she thought she must have learnt to dance from watching the windmill’s sails go round. Every night the King would have her dance again and again, as he never tired of watching her, and every night Lucilla said to herself, “Now another night is gone, and I am one day nearer to their taking me back to my own home and my children, with a bag of gold to give to my husband when he comes back from sea.”

The new Queen was a handsome woman, but she was very jealous, and it made her angry that the King should admire the new dancer’s dancing so much, and she thought she would like to be able to dance like her. So one evening when no one was watching her, she put on a big cloak that covered her all over, and asked her way to where the dancer lived. Lucilla sat alone in the little house that they had given her to live in, and the Queen came in behind her, and took off her cloak, and bade her be silent and not say her name, for fear some one should be listening and know that she was there.

“Now,” she said, “I have come to you that you may tell me, though no one else knows it, who taught you to dance, that I may go and learn from them also to dance like you; for in the home that I come from, I was said to be the most graceful woman in the land and the best dancer, so that there is no dancing that I cannot learn.”

Lucilla trembled, but she answered:

“Your Majesty, I lived in a little windmill by the sea when I was a child, far from teachers or dancers, but I watched the windmill sails go round, morn, noon, and night; and perhaps it is that that taught me to dance as I do now. And if your Majesty wishes to learn to do what I do, I will gladly teach you all I know, and doubtless you will soon learn to dance far better than I.”

Upon this the Queen was delighted, and flung aside her cloak, and stood opposite to Lucilla, and begged her to begin to teach her at once, that she might learn as soon as possible. All that evening they danced, but when the Queen thought she looked just as Lucilla did, she appeared to be quite awkward and heavy beside her, and was dancing just as other mortals might. When she went away she was very much pleased, and said that she would come twice more to learn from her, and then she was sure that she would be perfect. In her heart Lucilla was very much frightened, because she knew that the Queen did not dance as she did, and never could. However, the next night she came again, and the next again, and then there was to be a grand court ball; and at this the Queen thought she would first show her husband how she could dance. The King himself was fond of dancing, and danced well, although not half so well as Lucilla’s husband the sailor; and the Queen thought how delighted he would be when he saw what a graceful wife he had got. As the ball began, all the fine people were saying to each other, it really seemed silly to dance after they had seen the wonderful new dancer, but the Queen smiled and thought to herself, “Now they will see that I can do quite as well as she.” When her turn came she tripped lightly forward and danced as best she could, and thought it was just like Lucilla, and the courtiers said among each other, “Our new Queen dances well,” but no one thought of saying that it was like Lucilla’s dancing, and the King said nothing at all on the matter; therefore the Queen felt herself growing hot and angry, and she turned red and white by turns.

“That lying wench has been tricking me,” she said to herself, “and she has not taught me right at all; but I will punish her for her deception, and soon she shall know what it is to deceive a Queen.”

So the next day she went to her husband and said, “Husband, I have thought much of the new wonderful dancer whom we all admire so much, and truly I have never seen any one on earth who could dance as she can; but now I think we should do well before she goes back to her own home to know who has taught her her marvellous art, so that we may have our court dancers taught, that they may be there to please us when she is gone, for really there is nothing on earth that cannot be learnt if it is taught in the right way.”

The King agreed, and they sent for Lucilla, and the King asked her to tell him where she had learnt her dancing, that they might summon the same teachers to teach their court dancers. But Lucilla answered as before—she did not know—she thought she must have learnt dancing from watching the windmill sails going round. At this the King became angry, and said, “That is nonsense, no one could learn dancing from looking at windmill sails, neither was it possible that she, a poor miller’s daughter, could have learnt such dancing by nature;” then he threatened her, that if she would not tell him the truth he should be obliged to punish her, and he said she should have a day to think of it in, but at the end of the next day, he should expect her to tell him everything he wanted to know quite plainly.

When she was gone away the King said to the Queen, “Wife, if this dancer persists in her silence, and will not tell us how she has learnt, there is another thing which we must do. We must keep her here to dance for us as much as we choose, and not let her return at all to the home from which she came.”

The Queen was silent for a little, but she felt very jealous at the thought of the dancer remaining at the court, so she nodded her head and said, “Yes, but I think she ought to tell us more about it; for myself, I begin to think that it is witchcraft, and perhaps she has been taught by the Evil One, and then we shouldn’t like her to remain here and dance to us however beautiful it be, for who knows what ill luck it might not bring upon us?” Upon this the King looked grave, and said he did not believe much in ill luck or good luck, but he should be loth to lose the dancer, so they had better settle to keep her if she declined to tell them how the other dancers were to be taught.

Meantime Lucilla went back to her little house, and wept bitterly. “Would that I had never left my babes and my home,” she cried, “for I cannot break my word to the windfairies, and if I did they might do some terrible harm to my little ones or to my husband at sea; yet if I refuse to tell them they will most likely put me into prison, and there I shall remain for my life, and my husband and children will never know what has become of me.” And she knelt down before the windows and lifted her arms and cried out, “Oh, dear windfairies, I have not broken faith with you, so don’t break faith with me, and come to my help and save me in my trouble.”

Next evening Lucilla went again before the King, and he said to her, “Well, now will you tell us what we asked you last night, so that we may send for your teachers, and have others taught to dance as you do?”

“My gracious liege,” answered Lucilla, “I can tell you nothing that I have not told you before. Since I was a child I have danced as I dance now, and I watched the sails of my father’s windmill, and I danced in time to the waves, and perhaps that is what taught me to keep time and step so well. I was dancing by the sea-shore when the travellers who brought me here found me, and they promised me a bag of gold to take home to my husband if I would come and dance at your Majesty’s court; and now you have seen me dance, and I have done all I can do, so I entreat you to give me the bag of gold, and let me go home again.”

The King was silent, but the Queen was still more angry, and in her heart was determined that Lucilla should never return to her home until she had found out about her dancing. So when they were alone she said to her husband, “It is now quite clear, it is by witchcraft that this woman has learned, and we should do very wrong if we let her go till she has confessed all.” So again they sent for Lucilla and ordered her to confess, and again she wept and declared that she could tell no more. Then the King said, “Well, let us give the woman her bag of gold and let her go,” but the Queen stopped him, and said, “No indeed, let us first try shutting her up in prison for a bit, and see if that won’t open her lips.”

At first the King refused, for he said that Lucilla had done no wrong, but the Queen insisted that she was deceiving them, and that her dancing must be witchcraft, and at last the King began to listen to her. Also he was very angry with Lucilla for wanting to go home, and much disappointed to think he should see her dancing no more; so he consented, and said that either she must tell him how it was she came to be able to dance better than anybody else in this world, and who taught her, or else they should think her dancing witchcraft, and she must go to prison and wait her punishment.

Poor Lucilla wept most bitterly. “Alas!” cried she to herself, “woe is me, for I dare not break faith with the windfairies, and yet if I do not, I shall never see my husband or my babies again, for I fear lest they may put me to death here.”

However, she continued to be silent, and the King ordered her to be put into prison until she should speak out and tell them the truth; and the guards came and led her away to prison, and locked her into a dark cell. It was dreary and cold, and the walls were so thick that she could not hear any of the noises from without, and there was only one little window, which was too high up for her to see through. Here she lay and lamented, and almost wished she could die at once, for she believed that they would burn her, or drown her, and bitterly did she grieve that she had left her home and her children.

Every day the King sent down to ask if she had changed her mind, but every day she answered that she had nothing to say. One evening she sat in her dark cell alone, grieving as usual, when the prison door opened, and there entered a woman wrapped in a cloak and with her face hidden by a mask. When she took off the mask Lucilla saw it was the Queen, and she sprang up hoping that she had come to tell her that she was to be released, but the Queen said, “Now I have come to you alone that you may tell me the truth. Who taught you to dance, and where can I learn to do what you do? If you will tell me I will ask the King to forgive you, and you shall have your bag of gold, and go when you like.”

Then poor Lucilla began to cry afresh, and said, “My gracious lady, I can tell you one thing that I have not yet told to any one, that is, that I did learn my dancing, but who told me, or how it was, is a secret that I swore I would never tell to any one. And now I implore your Royal Highness to let me go back to my fisherman husband, and my babies. Alack! alack! it was an evil hour for me when I left my home.”

Upon this the Queen became furious, but she hid her anger, and first she tried to coax Lucilla to confess all, then she threatened her with the King’s wrath, and then, as Lucilla still wept and said that she could not break her promise, she started up in a rage, and said, “Indeed, it is of little use, however much you love your husband and your children, for you will never see them again. The King has settled that you shall be killed this very week, so now you know what you have gained by your wicked obstinacy.”

So the Queen returned to the King, and told him that the dancer had confessed that she had learned her dancing, but she would not say from whom, therefore it must be from the Evil One, and therefore there was nothing for it but that she should be killed. So they settled that first they would try to drown Lucilla, and if she were a witch she would not sink, and the King gave orders that she should be taken out to sea next day and thrown overboard, and also that she should have heavy weights tied to her feet, and her arms should be bound to her sides.

Next morning the guards fetched her, and they bound her arms to her sides, and tied heavy weights to her feet, and they took her down and placed her in a boat on the sea-shore, and they rowed her out to sea, and all along the beach stood crowds of people, shouting and jeering, and calling out, “She is a witch! she is a witch! the King has done well to have her killed.”

“Alas! alas!” cried Lucilla, “what have I done to deserve this? surely I have done no wrong to be so cruelly treated. Dear windfairies, come to my help, for in truth now is the time of my direst need, and if you desert me I am lost; but I pray you keep faith with me, as I have kept faith with you.” Then, when they had rowed the boat out a little way, the guards seized her, and threw her into the water, and the salt waves splashed over her face and through her hair; but in spite of the heavy weights on her feet she never sank, but felt as light as when she danced with the waves on the sea-shore by her home, and she knew that the windfairies held her up; and the waves rocked her gently, and drew her in towards the land, and laid her on the sand, and all the crowd yelled with rage.

When they found that Lucilla could not be drowned both the King and Queen were very angry, and said that now it was quite clear that she was a witch, and that she must be burnt, so they must take her back to prison, and arrange for her to be burnt in the market-place. So Lucilla was again taken back to her little dark cell, and she kneeled on the ground and looked up to the window, and murmured, “Thank you, dear windfairies, you have kept faith with me, as I have kept faith with you.”

Then again the guards came, and took her by the arms and led her to the market-place, and here she saw a great pile of wood made, whereon she was to be laid, and already men were busy setting fire to it. But as Lucilla and the guards came to the spot, there arose a little breeze, and it blew on to the faces of the crowd who went to see her burnt. The men who were trying to light the pile of wood, said they could not make it catch for the wind; when at last it did catch fire, the flames would not rise in the air, but were blown along the ground. Still they brought Lucilla up to the pile, and placed her upon it, and then the flames divided on each side, and were blown away from her all round, so she sat in the midst quite unhurt.

At this the people all cried out, “Now we know that she really is a witch, since she will not drown and the fire will not burn her,” and they ran to tell the King and the Queen that the dancing woman did not mind the fire, but sat in the midst of it unhurt. On hearing this the King and Queen came down to the market-place together, and saw Lucilla sitting on the pile of wood, and the flames blown away from her on all sides, and causing a great hubbub; so they told the guards to take her back to prison and keep her there, till they could arrange for her to be beheaded. And again Lucilla bent her head, and said, “Now I know, dear windfairies, that you will never desert me, and I have nothing to fear, for while I keep faith with you, you will keep faith with me.”

By now it was getting late in the day, and the King commanded that Lucilla should not be executed till next day, and that the scaffold should be erected in the market-place, on which the block should be put, so that all the crowd might see, and both he and the Queen would be there. But in order to give her one last chance that every one might see how fair they were, the King offered that if she would confess, even when she was upon the scaffold, who had taught her to dance, she should be allowed to return whence she came, and take her bag of gold with her, and therefore the bag of gold was placed on the scaffold so that all the people might see, and the bag was so large that Lucilla could scarcely lift it.

That evening Lucilla felt no fear, and she would have slept calmly in her cell, but the wind was beginning to blow in all directions, and all round she heard it roaring, and the trees were bending and breaking in the gale. When the morning came, the King and Queen said to each other, “This is the morning when they should execute the dancer, but it will be hard to get her on to the scaffold with a gale like this blowing.” However, the guards came to Lucilla’s cell, and took her out as before, and led her towards the market-place, though they had much ado to get along, for the wind blew so hard that they could scarce keep upright in it. All along the coast the little boats were being blown in to shore, and there were big ships, which had been driven in, to take refuge from the storm. But Lucilla felt no fear, only she looked up to the wind, and in her heart she said, “Now, dear windfairies, help me for the last time, and keep faith with me, as I have kept faith with you.”

Near the shore came a big ship with shining white sails, riding over the crested waves, and although all the other boats seemed troubled by the wind, and some were dismasted and others were wrecked, this boat seemed no way hurt by it, and the people who saw it called out, “What a gallant ship it was, and how brave the captain must be, who knew so well how to manage wind and water.” But when they knew that the time had come for Lucilla to be beheaded, the people did not trouble further about the boats, and in spite of the gale they flocked to the market-place, and crowded round the scaffold on which was the block.

Then the guards and Lucilla mounted the scaffold, and Lucilla began to fear that at last the windfairies had forsaken her, and she wept and held out her arms, and cried out, “Oh, dear windfairies, indeed I have kept my faith with you, surely, surely you will keep yours with me.” In spite of the terrible gale, the King and the Queen came down to the market-place, though they could scarce see or hear for the wind, though all the time the sun was shining and the sky was blue. Then the guards bid Lucilla kneel down and place her head upon the block, and the bag of gold was beside her, and they said, “This is your last chance, speak now and confess the truth to the King, and here is your gold, and you shall go.” And Lucilla answered as before, “I have spoken the truth, and there is no more that I can tell, since I have sworn never to say from whom I learnt my dancing.”

Then the executioner lifted the axe in the air, but before it fell, there came a sudden roar of wind, and the axe was swept from his hand, and the houses in the market-place tottered and fell, and high up on the hill the palace was a mass of ruins. Only Lucilla knelt upon the scaffold unhurt, for the King and the Queen and all the people were blown right and left, amidst the ruins of the houses, and no one thought of anything save how they could save themselves.

Then Lucilla lifted her head and looked out to sea, and saw the big ship coming in, and she heard the sailors cry, “Heyday, these poor folk are in a sad plight, we had better go and help them,” and they all trooped up into the market-place, and the wind troubled them no more than it had troubled their ship. But when Lucilla looked at them, the first whom she saw was her husband, and she gave a great cry, and held out her arms, and called out, “Now, dear windfairies, do I indeed know that you have kept faith with me, and saved me in my direst hour of need.”

Then she told her husband all that had happened, and showed him the bag of gold, and prayed him take her back to her little cottage and her babies by the sea; and she knew that it was the windfairies that had brought her husband to her, for he told her that whatever way they steered the ship it would only take one course, and the wind had blown it without their guidance straight to the town where she was to be killed.

So Lucilla and her husband took the bag of gold, and went back to the little cottage by the sea-shore, and her father and her babies, and the King and the Queen and all the rest of the people were left to build up their town as best they could, and Lucilla never saw nor heard of them any more, but lived happily with her husband for the rest of her life.

VAIN KESTA

Once upon a time there lived a young girl called Kesta who was the dairy-maid at a large farm. She milked the cows and made the cheese and butter, and sometimes took them into the town to sell for her master.

On the farm worked a man named Adam. He drove in the cows for Kesta to milk and watched her milking them. As she was a comely-looking girl and did her work well, he thought she would make him a good wife; so one day he said, “Kesta, how would you like to marry me? and then we can save our money and some day buy a farm for ourselves, and I should be a farmer and you should be the farmer’s wife, and have servants to wait on you.”

“That I should like very much,” said Kesta, “but I can’t say yes, at once. To-morrow I am going to town with my cheeses, when I come back I will give you an answer.”

At night Kesta looked into her glass and said, “I wonder why Adam wishes to marry me? but as he does, most likely some better man would like to do so; it would be folly to marry him till I see if I can’t do better. I must look about me when I go to town to-morrow, and see who I can meet.”

In the morning she dressed herself with great care in her best clothes, and set out for the town with the cheeses in a basket under her arm. When she had got a little way she passed a mill, and the miller all white with flour stood in the yard directing his men. He was an oldish man, and his wife was recently dead, and Kesta thought as she drew near, it would be a better thing to marry him than to marry poor Adam, so she said, “Good-day, would you kindly let me rest a little?”

“Certainly, my girl,” said the miller, “you seem to be out of breath?”

“And well I may be,” said Kesta, “such a run as I have had. I’ve come from the farm yonder, and it was as much as I could do to get away, for the farmer’s man was very angry because I would not marry him, and of course I am too good for him, a pretty girl like me.”

“Are you really a pretty girl?” said the miller; “let me see, perhaps you are. Well, if you are too good for the farmer’s man perhaps you would suit me. How would you like to marry me, and live in the mill-house yonder?”

“I think I should like it well,” said Kesta, “but I have some business in the town, and must go there first, so I’ll stop here and tell you as I come back.” So she said good-bye, and went on her way feeling very merry.

“It would be much better to marry the miller than to marry Adam, but who knows if I may not do better than either, so I must not be in any hurry.” So she walked on, and near to the town she met a man on a white horse, and saw it was the bailiff of the great Duke at the Palace. “Who knows but that he may want a wife?” she said to herself, “I can but try.” So she sat down by the road-side and called out, “Ah me, what a thing it is to be a poor girl who has to run away from all the men she meets!”

“Why,” cried the bailiff, stopping his horse. “Why have you to run? who tries to hurt you?”

“No one tries to hurt me,” said Kesta, “but I have to run from men who want to marry me, because I am so pretty. At first it was a man at our farm, and now it is the miller, who would not let me pass his door unless I promised to come back and marry him, but I am far too good for such as he.”

“Is this really so?” cried the bailiff, who hated the miller; “did the miller really want to marry you? If you’re too good to marry him, it may be you would suit me.”

“Indeed,” said Kesta, “I think that might do well, for I should live in a nice house and have plenty of servants. But I have to go into the town on business, and you’re sure to be somewhere about here, and when I come back we will arrange it.” So she set off, leaving the bailiff chuckling at the thought of how angry the miller would be if he married Kesta.

On went Kesta in high good-humour. “Now am I indeed doing well,” said she; “how clever I was not to marry Adam before I came to town.” Presently she reached the town, and in the high street she passed the bank, and the banker himself stood in the doorway. He was fat and ugly and old, but his hands were covered with rings, and Kesta knew his pockets were full of gold. Kesta said, “It would be a fine thing to marry him, and I could hold up my head with any one. I think I’ll speak to him, as it would be folly to pass him without trying.” So she gave a loud sigh and said, “Alack a day, how hard is my lot!”

“Why, what is wrong, my pretty lass?” said the banker.

“Pretty you may well say,” answered Kesta. “Would I were not so, for thence come all my troubles.”

“And what are they?” asked the banker.

“Only wherever I go, I have no peace, for all the men want to marry me. First it is the farmer, then the miller, and lastly the duke’s bailiff, who would scarcely let me pass on the road till I had promised him; and of course it is impossible, and I am much too pretty for any of them.”

“Is this really true?” cried the banker; “if so, there must be something very superior about you. Perhaps you would be good enough for me. How would you like to be my wife, and ride in a fine carriage, and wear silk gowns all day?”

“Nay, that would be much more fitting,” cried Kesta, “and from the first I thought you would be much more suitable to be my husband than any of the others I have met; but I must go down the town first, so I will come in here on my way back.” So she went on till she came to a great square in front of the barracks where the soldiers were drilling, with their helmets and swords glittering in the sun, and at their head rode the General of the army. His voice was hoarse with shouting at his men, and he swore dreadfully, but he was covered with gold, and looked very grand. “Now supposing he has no wife,” thought Kesta, “it would be a really fine thing to marry him: I can but try.” So she waited till the soldiers were marching into the barracks, and then, when he was riding away, she went so close under the horse’s feet that he shouted to her in case she should be run over. “Alas! what a life is mine,” she cried very loud that he might hear, “hunted here and there till I don’t know where I go!”

“Why, who hunts you?” cried the General angrily; “what nonsense you talk, my good girl.”

“How dare you say I talk nonsense,” cried Kesta, “when it is as much as I can do to get through your town for the men who want me to stop and marry them!”

“And why do they want you to marry them?” asked the General.

“Because I’m so pretty, of course,” said Kesta promptly, and she took off her hat and looked up at the General.

“I don’t think you are so pretty,” he said.

“But I am,” cried Kesta angrily, “and it’s only stupid people who don’t see it. Go and ask the men in the town. First it was a man at the farm, then the miller, then the duke’s bailiff, then the banker—they all wanted to marry me, and I am much too good for any of them!”

“If this is all true,” said the General, “of course you must be exceedingly pretty, and as you say you are much too good for them, perhaps you might suit me. How would you like that?”

“That might be better,” said Kesta, “and as you wish it very much I will agree, and I hope you will try to make me a good husband; but I am obliged to go a little further on important business, and I will meet you here on my way back,” and on she went laughing to herself. “Indeed I am fortunate,” thought she; “and as they all seem willing to marry me why should I not try higher, and see what the Duke himself would say? There is nothing like being practical, and it would be downright silly not to speak to the Duke now I am here.” By this time she had come to the Duke’s palace, so she stopped a servant who was coming out and asked if he were at home, for she said, “I have special business with him.” “He is sitting by the stream in the garden, where he sits fishing all day, and you can go and speak to him if you choose,” said the servant. So Kesta went through the courtyard into the garden, and straight on to where the Duke sat beside the stream with a long rod in his hand fishing. He was dressed all in green, and seemed to be half asleep, and Kesta came quite near him before he saw her. Then she said, “Ah, pity me, your Grace, and listen to my sad story.”

“Good gracious! who are you?—don’t you know I am the Duke?” said he.

“And that is why I have come to you to ask you to protect me from all the men who pursue me,” said Kesta.

“Why do they pursue you?” asked the Duke.

“Because I am so pretty,” replied Kesta. “They all want to marry me: first the man at the farm, then the miller I met on the road, then your bailiff, then the banker, then the General of your army, and he would only let me go when I promised to go back to him.”

“The General!” said the Duke. “Is this true? does he really want to marry you?”

“Of course he does,” said Kesta; “if you doubt what I say you had better send to the town and ask.”

“Indeed,” said the Duke, “I should not have thought you so very pretty, but if what you say is true you must be. I’m not sure if it would not suit me to marry you myself; but mind, I shall be exceedingly angry if I find you have not told me the truth, and they did not want to marry you. Of course you would be delighted to marry me and be the Duchess?”

“Aye, that I should,” cried Kesta, and she grinned with delight.

Then the Duke took from his side a horn and blew it loudly. There came from the palace four pages, dressed in blue and gold, who stood in a row to receive his orders. “See,” cried the Duke, “I am going to marry this lady, who everybody thinks is very beautiful, so see that you treat her with respect; and go to the palace and bid them to prepare a feast and fitting clothes for the bride, and tell the chaplain to be ready, for I mean to marry her at once.”

“And now,” he said to Kesta, when all his pages had returned to the palace, “come and sit by me and watch me fish till all is ready.”

So Kesta sat by his side and watched him fishing with his long rod, but after a time she grew tired of being silent, and said, “What have you caught?”

“Nothing yet,” said the Duke.

“Then why do you go on?” asked she.

“Because I’m sure to catch something soon, and it’s amusing. Wouldn’t you like to hold the rod a little?”

“Yes, very much,” answered Kesta, who was afraid of offending him. So she put out her hand to take the rod, and as she did so the basket fell from her arm and the cheeses rolled out.

“What are those round balls?” asked the Duke, “and what an odd smell they have.”

“They are my cheeses,” cried Kesta; “I made them yesterday, and was taking them to sell, when——”

“Good gracious, you made them!” cried the Duke with a scream. “Then you must be a common dairy-maid, and your hands are quite rough. How terrible! And I was just going to marry you. How dare you think yourself good enough to marry me!” and he sprang to his feet in a towering passion, and seizing his horn blew it so loudly that the four pages ran up in great alarm. “Hunt her away,” cried the Duke, “she is an impostor—a common farm wench and makes cheeses. She thought herself good enough to be the Duchess!”

Away flew Kesta, with the pages after her hooting and shouting, “Down with the impertinent hussy who wanted to marry the Duke, a common dairy-maid who makes cheeses.”

On rushed Kesta till she came to the General’s house, and at his window he sat in his fine uniform. He sat waiting for her, but when he saw the pages behind her he called, “Hey-dey, what is all this fuss about?”

“It is nothing,” said Kesta. “See, I have come back to marry you as I promised.”

But here the pages shouted, “Away with the impertinent dairy-maid, who thought herself good enough to marry the Duke.”

“And wouldn’t the Duke marry her?” asked the General.

“Of course not; she is nothing but a farm wench,” cried the pages, “and she is to be chased from the town for her impertinence.”

“And so she shall,” cried the General; “she thought she was fit for me too—it is disgraceful!” and he cried to some soldiers who stood by his door, “Here, my men, help to chase this good-for-nothing hussy out of the town.”

But before he had finished Kesta was running down the street with all her might to the banker’s. At last she came to the banker’s big square house standing beside the bank, and on the steps was the banker himself in his shiny black clothes with gold rings on his hands.

“Here I am,” cried Kesta; “and let me in quickly, for I am out of breath with running.”

“Why have you hurried so?” cried the banker, and as he spoke the pages and the soldiers came round the corner, “and what is all this shouting for?”

“Nay, how should I know?” cried Kesta, running into the house.

But up came her pursuers, crying, “Away with her! down with her!”

“Who is it you are calling after?” asked the banker.

“That wench in the yellow dress who has gone into your house.”

“Why, what has she done?” he asked.

“Why, she thought herself good enough to marry the Duke and the General, and she is to be hooted out of the town for her impudence!”

“But didn’t the General want to marry her?” asked the banker.

“Our General!” cried the soldiers angrily; “why, she’s only a dairy-maid, and not fit for him.”

“Then I’m sure she can’t be good enough for me, for I’m quite as good as he,” said the banker, and he ran into the house in a great rage, crying, “Begone, you impertinent jade! how dare you think yourself good enough for me to marry!” It chanced at this moment that the clerks were coming out of the bank next door, and when he saw them he cried, “Here, my good fellows, help to chase this minx from the town; she wishes to be my wife, when she is nothing but a common dairy-maid.” On this the clerks burst out laughing, and one and all ran after Kesta, who ran with all her might and main.

“It’s too hard,” sobbed she; “what have I done to be treated like this?” But run as fast as she might she could not reach the bailiff’s house before them, and the pages, soldiers, and clerks were all close to her, shouting and laughing.

“Why, what’s the matter?” cried the bailiff, “and why are you shouting at this poor maid?”

“Why,” said they, “she wanted to marry first the Duke, and the General, and the banker, and of course they would not have her, because she is only a common dairy wench.”

“What impertinence!” cried the bailiff; “and, now I come to think of it, she asked to marry me too; indeed she merits punishment for such behaviour,” and seeing some of his farm people close at hand, he bid them run after Kesta and drive her out of the town. But this time she had started first, and had got on to the mill before they could reach her, and she ran into the garden where the miller was. “Well, I’m glad to see you back,” said he, “but how hard you have run.”

“I was in such a hurry to get back. Now let’s go into the house,” she said.

“Come along,” said the miller; “but what are all those people shouting for?”

“’Tis only the farmers bringing home pigs from the market,” said Kesta, but she felt frightened, for she heard the people calling after her.

“Pigs don’t make a noise like that,” said the miller, “I will go and see what it is about.” And when he heard that they were all shouting at Kesta, he flew into a violent rage and cried, “If she wasn’t good enough for the bailiff I’m sure she’s not fit for me,” and he called to some of his men who were working at the mill, “See there, my men, do you see that girl? throw some flour at her, for she is an impudent hussy, and asked me to marry her.”

Away flew Kesta again, and after her came all the crowd in a long line. “How unfortunate I am,” she sobbed; “but anyhow I can go back to Adam; he’s sure to be glad to have me,” and on she sped, and at last she came to the farm and ran in, calling to Adam.

“Is that you, Kesta?” cried Adam, coming to meet her, and kissing her. “I’m glad to see you, but why are you so hot?”

“It is the sun, it was so strong,” said Kesta.

“Then sit down and grow cool,” said Adam. “But I wonder what all that shouting outside can be?”

“It is only people making holiday,” cried Kesta. But for all she could say Adam went out to ask the people what they wanted at the farm?

“We want nothing at the farm,” they cried, “but we followed that impudent wench dressed in yellow.”

“Why, what has she done?” asked Adam.

“Done!” they cried. “Why, she came up to the town and asked to marry the miller, and the banker, and the bailiff, and the General, and even the Duke himself, so she deserves to be punished for her presumption.”

Then Adam looked very grave, and went back to the farm and said, “Indeed, Kesta, I cannot marry you now, since you’ve been to the town and tried to get a finer husband than me,” and he went back to his work, and left Kesta sitting all alone; and there she sat and cried by herself, and did not get any husband after all, because she was so false and vain.

THE POOL & THE TREE

Once there was a tree standing in the middle of a vast wilderness, and beneath the shade of its branches was a little pool, over which they bent. The pool looked up at the tree and the tree looked down at the pool, and the two loved each other better than anything else on earth. And neither of them thought of anything else but each other, or cared who came and went in the world around them.

“But for you and the shade you give me I should have been dried up by the sun long ago,” said the pool.

“And if it were not for you and your shining face, I should never have seen myself, or have known what my boughs and blossoms were like,” answered the tree.

Every year when the leaves and flowers had died away from the branches of the tree, and the cold winter came, the little pool froze over and remained hard and silent till the spring; but directly the sun’s rays thawed it, it again sparkled and danced as the wind blew upon it, and it began to watch its beloved friend, to see the buds and leaves reappear, and together they counted the leaves and blossoms as they came forth.

One day there rode over the moorland a couple of travellers in search of rare plants and flowers. At first they did not look at the tree, but as they were hot and tired they got off their horses, and sat under the shade of the boughs, and talked of what they had been doing. “We have not found much,” said one gloomily; “it seemed scarcely worth while to come so far for so little.”

“One may hunt for many years before one finds anything very rare,” answered the elder traveller. “Well, we have not done, and who knows but what we may yet have some luck?” As he spoke he picked up one of the fallen leaves of the tree which lay beside him, and at once he sprang to his feet, and pulled down one of the branches to examine it. Then he called to his comrade to get up, and he also closely examined the leaves and blossoms, and they talked together eagerly, and at length declared that this was the best thing they had found in all their travels. But neither the pool nor the tree heeded them, for the pool lay looking lovingly up to the tree, and the tree gazed down at the clear water of the pool, and they wanted nothing more, and by and by the travellers mounted their horses and rode away.

The summer passed and the cold winds of autumn blew.

“Soon your leaves will drop and you will fall asleep for the winter, and we must bid each other good-bye,” said the pool.

“And you too when the frost comes will be numbed to ice,” answered the tree; “but never mind, the spring will follow, and the sun will wake us both.”

But long before the winter had set in, ere yet the last leaf had fallen, there came across the prairie a number of men riding on horses and mules, bringing with them a long waggon. They rode straight to the tree, and foremost among them were the two travellers who had been there before.

“Why do they come? What do they want?” cried the pool uneasily; but the tree feared nothing. The men had spades and pickaxes, and began to dig a deep ditch all round the tree’s roots, and then they dug beneath them, and at last both the pool and the tree saw that they were going to dig it up.

“What are you doing? Why are you trying to wrench up my roots and to move me?” cried the tree; “don’t you know that I shall die if you drag me from my pool which has fed and loved me all my life?” And the pool said, “Oh, what can they want? Why do they take you? The sun will come and dry me up without your shade, and I never, never shall see you again.” But the men heard nothing, and continued to dig at the root of the tree till they had loosened all the earth round it, and then they lifted it and wrapped big cloths round it and put it on their waggon and drove away with it.

Then for the first time the pool looked straight up at the sky without seeing the delicate tracery made by the leaves and twigs against the blue, and it called out to all things near it: “My tree, my tree, where have they taken my tree? When the hot sun comes it will dry me up, if it shines down on me without the shade of my tree.” And so loudly it mourned and lamented that the birds flying past heard it, and at last a swallow paused on the wing, and hovering near its surface, asked why it grieved so bitterly. “They have taken my tree,” cried the pool, “and I don’t know where it is; I cannot move or look to right or left, so I shall never see it again.”

“Ask the moon,” said the swallow. “The moon sees everywhere, and she will tell you. I am flying away to warmer countries, for the winter will soon be here. Good-bye, poor pool.”

At night, when the moon rose, and the pool looked up and saw its beautiful white face, it remembered the swallow’s words, and called out to ask its aid.

“Find me my tree,” it prayed; “you shone through its branches and know it well, and you can see all over the world; look for my tree, and tell me where they have taken it. Perhaps they have torn it in pieces or burnt it up.”

“Nay,” cried the moon, “they have done neither, for I saw it a few hours ago when I shone near it. They have taken it many miles away and it is planted in a big garden, but it has not taken root in the earth, and its foliage is fading. The men who took it prize it heartily, and strangers come from far and near to look at it, because they say it is so rare, and there are only one or two like it in the world.”

On hearing this the pool felt itself swell with pride that the tree should be so much admired; but then it cried in anguish, “And I shall never see it again, for I can never move from here.”

“That is nonsense,” cried a little cloud that was sailing near; “I was once in the earth like you. To-morrow, if the sun shines brightly, he will draw you up into the sky, and you can sail along till you find your tree.”

“Is that true?” cried the pool, and all that night it rested in peace waiting for the sun to rise. Next day there were no clouds, and when the pool saw the sun shining it cried, “Draw me up into the sky, dear Sun, that I may be a little cloud and sail all the world over, till I can find my beloved tree.”

When the sun heard it, he threw down hundreds of tiny golden threads which dropped over the pool, and slowly and gradually it began to change and grow thinner and lighter, and to rise through the air, till at last it had quite left the earth, and where it had lain before, there was nothing but a dry hole, but the pool itself was transformed into a tiny cloud, and was sailing above in the blue sky in the sunshine. There were many other little clouds in the sky, but our little cloud kept apart from them all. It could see far and near over a great space of country, but nowhere could it espy the tree, and again it turned to the sun for help. “Can you see?” it cried. “You who see everywhere, where is my tree?”

“You can’t see it yet,” answered the sun, “for it is away on the other side of the world, but presently the wind will begin to blow and it will blow you till you find it.”

Then the wind arose, and the cloud sailed along swiftly, looking everywhere as it went for the tree. It could have had a merry time if it had not longed so for its friend. Everywhere was the golden sunlight shining through the bright blue sky, and the other clouds tumbled and danced in the wind and laughed for joy.

“Why do you not come and dance with us?” they cried; “why do you sail on so rapidly?”

“I cannot stay, I am seeking a lost friend,” answered the cloud, and it scudded past them, leaving them to roll over and over, and tumble about, and change their shapes, and divide and separate, and play a thousand pranks.

For many hundred miles the wind blew the little cloud, then it said, “Now I am tired and shall take you no further, but soon the west wind will come and it will take you on; good-bye.” And at once the wind stopped blowing and dropped to rest on the earth; and the cloud stood still in the sky and looked all around.

“I shall never find it,” it sighed. “It will be dead before I come.”

Presently the sun went down and the moon rose, then the west wind began to blow gently and moved the cloud slowly along.

“Which way should I go, where is it?” entreated the cloud.

“I know; I will take you straight to it,” said the west wind. “The north wind has told me. I blew by the tree to-day; it was drooping, but when I told it that you had risen to the sky and were seeking it, it revived and tried to lift its branches. They have planted it in a great garden, and there are railings round it and no one may touch it; and there is one gardener who has nothing to do but to attend to it, and people come from far and near to look at it because it is so rare, and they have only found one or two others like it, but it longs to be back in the desert, stooping over you and seeing its face in your water.”

“Make haste, then,” cried the cloud, “lest before I reach it I fall to pieces with joy at the thought of seeing it.”

“How foolish you are!” said the wind. “Why should you give yourself up for a tree? You might dance about in the sky for long yet, and then you might drop into the sea and mix with the waves and rise again with them to the sky, but if you fall about the tree you will go straight into the dark earth, and perhaps you will always remain there, for at the roots of the tree they have made a deep hole and the sun cannot draw you up through the earth under the branches.”

“Have you come at last?” the cried; “then we need never be parted again.”

“Then that will be what I long for,” cried the cloud. “For then I can lie in the dark where no one may see me, but I shall be close to my tree, and I can touch its roots and feed them, and when the raindrops fall from its branches they will run down to me and tell me how they look.”

“You are foolish,” said the wind again; “but you shall have what you want.”

The wind blew the cloud low down near the earth till it found itself over a big garden, in which there were all sorts of trees and shrubs, and such soft green grass as the cloud had never seen before. And there in the middle of the grass, in a bed of earth to itself, with a railing round it so that no one could injure it, was the tree which the cloud had come so far to seek. Its leaves were falling off, its branches were drooping, and its buds dropped before they opened, and the poor tree looked as if it were dying.

“There is my tree, my tree!” called the cloud. “Blow me down, dear wind, so that I may fall upon it.”

The wind blew the cloud lower and lower, till it almost touched the top branches of the tree. Then it broke and fell in a shower, and crept down through the earth to its roots, and when it felt its drops the tree lifted up its leaves and rejoiced, for it knew that the pool it had loved so had followed it.

“Have you come at last?” it cried. “Then we need never be parted again.”

In the morning when the gardeners came they found the tree looking quite fresh and well, and its leaves quite green and crisp. “The cool wind last night revived it,” they said, “and it looks as if it had rained too in the night, for round here the earth is quite damp.” But they did not know that under the earth at the tree’s roots lay the pool, and that that was what had saved the tree.

And there it lies to this day, hidden away in the darkness where no one can see it, but the tree feels it with its roots, and blooms in splendour, and people come from far and near to admire it.

NANINA’S SHEEP

Once there lived a young girl called Nanina, who kept sheep for an old farmer. One day he said to her, “Nanina, I’m going away to buy pigs at a market far off, and I shall be away one whole month, so be sure and take good care of the flock, and remember, there are six sheep and eight lambs, and I must find them safe when I return. And mind, Nanina, that whatever you do, you don’t go near the old palace on the other side of the hill, for it is filled with wicked fairies who might do you an ill turn.” Nanina promised, and her master started.

The first day all went well, and she drove the flock in safely at night; but the next day she found it dull sitting on the hillside watching the lambs at play, and wondered why her master had told her always to keep on that side, and away from the old palace on the other.

“If it is filled with fairies,” quoth she, “it won’t hurt me just to look at it; I should like to see a fairy.” So she drove her flock to the other side of the hill, and sat looking at the old palace that was half in ruins, but was said to be lit up quite brightly every night after it was dark.

“I wonder if it really is lit up,” said Nanina, “I should like to see.” So she waited on that side of the hill till the sun went down, and then she saw a bright light appearing in one of the palace windows. As she stood and watched, the front door opened, and out there came a shepherd boy followed by a flock of black goats. Nanina stared at him, for she had never seen any one so beautiful before. He was dressed in glittering green, and wore a soft brown hat trimmed with leaves under which his curls hung down. In one hand he held a crook and in the other a pipe, and as he drew near, he began to play the pipe and dance merrily, while the goats behind him skipped and danced too. Nanina had never seen such goats; they were jet black, with locks curling and thick and soft as silk. As she listened open-mouthed to the music of the pipe, she heard it speak words in its playing:—

“When the young birds sing,

And the young plants spring,

Then dance we so merrily together, oh.”

The shepherd boy danced lightly to where she stood, and louder and louder sounded the pipe, and still it said—

“When the young birds sing,

And the young plants spring,

Then dance we so merrily together, oh.”

Nanina gaped to see the goats dance and spring in time to the music, and so cheering it was, that she felt her own feet beginning to move with it. The shepherd made her a low bow and offered her his hand, and she placed hers in it, and off they started together. Nanina’s feet felt as light as if they had been made of cork, and she laughed with glee as she bounded on; and as she danced with the shepherd, so her flock began to move too, and thus they went, followed by the black goats and sheep all skipping merrily. “If my flock follow me there can be no harm,” thought Nanina, and on they kept in time to the wonderful tune—

“When the young birds sing,

And the young plants spring,

Then dance we so merrily together, oh.”

Whither they went she knew not, she thought of nothing but the joy of dancing to the wonderful music; but suddenly, just ere sunrise, the shepherd stopped, and dropped her hand and gave one long slow note on the pipe, at which the goats gathered round him, and before she knew where they were going, they had disappeared into the palace. Then she was in a terrible fright, for she saw the sun beginning to rise, and found the whole night had passed, when she thought she had only been ten minutes. She counted her sheep, and, alas! there was one lamb missing.

She sought everywhere for it, but no trace of it was to be seen. Then she drove all the others back to the farm and watched them, falling half asleep, for she was weary with the dancing. But when evening came, and she had slept some time, she said to herself, “Surely the best plan would be to go back to the old palace, and see if I can see the shepherd and the black goats again.” So just about sunset she returned to the palace, and again the door opened, and the beautiful shepherd boy came out with the black goats following. But when he began to play on his pipe, and the goats to dance, Nanina forgot all about the lost lamb and danced with him as before. Again they danced till morning, and then he left her suddenly, and she found that another lamb had disappeared. Then she wept and lamented, and declared that the next night she would only watch the shepherd and nothing would make her dance; and again the next night the same thing happened; when once she heard the pipe, Nanina could not keep still, and another lamb was lost. This went on to the end of a fortnight, when there was only one of the flock left. Then she was terribly frightened, for her master would soon return, and she did not know what she should say to him. But still she went back and sat by the old palace, and when the shepherd came out, and she heard the music, she could not refrain from dancing, and in the morning the last lamb had gone!

All the day Nanina wandered about and cried, but no sheep were to be found. At last, when she was quite weary, she sat down beneath a beech tree near the palace, and leaned her head against its trunk sobbing. Then she saw that someone had torn down the lowest branches of the tree and they were hanging down broken. She raised them and tied them up, so that they would grow together, and as she did so she heard a shadowy voice whisper, “Thank you, Nanina; Nanina, don’t dance.” She looked about but there was nobody there, and again she heard a whisper, “Nanina, don’t dance.” The voice came from the beech tree, and among the leaves she saw a small twisted face looking at her. “Thank you, Nanina, for saving my bough,” said the tree, “and if you mind me, you shall get all your sheep back again.”

“My sheep,” cried Nanina. “Only tell me, and I will do anything.”

“Then you must not dance. Every time you refuse to dance with the fairy, one of your flock will be returned.”

“But how can I refuse to dance?” cried Nanina, “for as I hear the pipe beginning, my feet begin to move of themselves, it is no use my trying,” and she cried aloud.

“Bury your feet in the earth like my roots,” whispered back the voice. “Dig a hole deep down, and I will hold your feet so that you shall not move them, only you must bear the pain, and not mind if you walk lame afterwards, for I shall hold them very tight, and it will hurt you.”

“Hurt me as you please,” cried Nanina, “and I shan’t mind. If only I can get back my sheep I will bear any pain.” So she knelt beneath the tree, and dug a deep hole in the ground among its roots, and then she placed her feet among the loose earth, and she felt something moving near them which tightened around and drew them far down into the ground, and held them as if they were bound with cords. She saw the lights in the windows of the palace, and the door opened. “Hold me, hold me fast,” she cried, “for when I hear the music I shall begin to dance.” The tree said nothing, but she felt its roots tightening so that she could not move. The door of the palace opened as before, and the beautiful shepherd, followed by his goats and her sheep, came out, and she heard once more the sound of the wonderful pipe, and he danced straight up to the tree beneath which she stood, and held out his hand to her. Nanina felt as if her feet were beginning to move under the earth, but the roots of the tree held them so firmly that she could not stir one inch. Still the shepherd danced before her, and as she saw him springing in front, with the flocks behind him following him, she grew quite wild to dance, and tried her hardest to break her feet free from the roots which held them, but in vain, though she almost screamed with the pain they cost her. For hours the shepherd danced in front of her, till, as before, the pipe sounded forth one long note, and he disappeared, but this time not all the flock went with him, for beside her was left one of her own little lambs, and when she saw it she cried for joy. She felt the roots releasing their hold of her feet, and she drew them out of the earth, and they were all blue and bruised where they had been held. She drove home the lamb and fastened it into the sheep-pen, but her feet were so stiff and swelled that she limped as she walked. Next night she went back to the beech tree, and again slipped her feet into its roots, and felt them twist around them; but this time the poor feet were so sore that she cried when they touched them. Again the fairy appeared, and again she heard the pipe, and her longing to dance was worse than ever, but the roots clutched her and would not let her stir. When the pipe ceased and the fairy disappeared, another of her lambs was left with her, and she drove it home as she had done the first, but she had to go very slowly on account of her crushed feet.

The same thing happened the next night and the next, till all the flock had returned save one, and Nanina’s feet were so bad that she could scarcely hobble, for they were crushed and bleeding, and she wondered whether she would walk lame all the days of her life.

On the last evening she limped down to the tree almost crying with pain. When she sat down by its trunk she heard the soft sighing voice saying, “Never mind, Nanina; to-night is the last, and though it will hurt you the most, it will soon be past.” So she slipped her feet into the earth once more, though she shrank as they touched it, and directly the sun had set, the lights appeared in the palace windows, and out came the shepherd with all his black goats and her one white sheep following him. He looked more beautiful than ever, for he had a crown set with jewels, and was dressed in scarlet and gold, but when the pipe began to play it was not merry dance-music it made, but long sad notes, like a funeral march; yet Nanina’s feet would have moved in spite of herself, and she would have marched in time to them, had not the roots tightened like cords and held her down. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks, and she sobbed, and instead of the joyous words what the music said was—

“Join us, Nanina, dance again,

One last dance will ease your pain.”

“Join us, Nanina, dance again,
One last dance will ease your pain.”

Presently the music grew quicker, and her longing to move with it grew stronger. She swayed herself about, and cried and screamed as the fairy and flock danced, now solemnly and slowly, now joyously and wildly. Just when she felt that she could bear it no longer there came one long low note on the pipe, and with a mighty crash like thunder the shepherd and the goats disappeared, and not only had they gone, but the walls of the old palace had fallen, and nothing was left of it but a heap of stones. Beside her on the grass was the last of her lost sheep. “Good-bye, Nanina,” said the voice from the beech tree; “now you have all your flock again,” and she felt the roots loosen round her feet, but when she looked at them she found that her legs were wounded and bleeding, where she had dashed them about in trying to dance. She knelt down and smoothed over the earth where it was torn up among the trees, and she put her arms round the trunk and kissed and thanked it for having helped her, but the voice did not speak again. Then she drove home the last sheep, but she had to go on her hands and knees, for her feet were too bad to walk.

Next day when the farmer came home, he was well pleased that she had kept his flock safe, but he would fain know how she had got such sore feet that for long she must walk lame. “Of a truth, master,” she quoth, “it was in saving the lambs when they got into dangerous places.”

Underneath the beech tree, where Nanina’s feet had bled among the earth, there sprang up pretty little scarlet flowers, and whenever she passed and saw them she remembered how she had been punished for disobeying her master, and made up her mind never to do so again.

THE END

THE GIPSY’S CUP

In a little village there lived a young potter, who made his living by making all sorts of earthenware. He took the clay, and made it into shapes on the wheel, and then baked his cups and jars in a kiln. He made big jugs and little jugs, and basins and cups and saucers, and indeed every sort of pot or jar that could be wanted. He was very fond of his work, and was always thinking of how to make new shapes, or colour his jars with pretty colours. It was a very tiny village he lived in, and he worked at throwing his pots on his wheel by the road-side, but people came from many other villages and towns to buy his ware. Once a year there was a big fair, held in the town near, and just before it, the potter was always very busy making new pots and jugs to sell there. A few nights before the fair was to be held, he was hard at work, trying to finish a number of little bowls, so he sat at his wheel late in the evening after the sun was set. All day long the road had been gay with folk coming to the fair, some were in carts, and some were on foot, and there were a number of gipsies in caravans, bringing all sorts of goods to sell. Most of them went through the village and on to a big common a little further on, where they got out of their carts and put up tents, to sleep in while the fair went on. The potter was so busy with his little basins on his turning wheel that he did not hear the sound of footsteps, and when he looked up, he was surprised to see a young gipsy girl standing near, watching him. She was quite young, and had big black eyes, and rosy round cheeks, and her black hair was twisted up in little red beads and chains. She was dressed in some very gay stuff, and round her neck was a gold necklace, and on her fingers and arms were rings and bracelets.

“That should be a fine cup,” said the girl, “since you keep your eyes on it and can look at nothing else.”

“I keep my eyes for my work, that I may do it well,” said the potter, “for I live by my work, and neither by stealing nor begging.”

“But I fancy many others can do your work as well, or better than you,” answered the gipsy. “What can your cups do when they are finished? I don’t hear you say anything to them, so I should think they would be stupid cups—only fit to drink out of.”

“And what else should they be for?” asked the potter angrily. “What do you mean by saying that you don’t hear me saying anything to my cups? I don’t think you know what you are talking about. It is nonsense, and you are talking nonsense.”

“My grandfather used to make pots on a wheel,” said the gipsy, and she laughed low, and showed her white teeth in the moonlight; “ah! but he knew how to do them, and he had charms to say to them when he threw them. And one of his cups would make you wise if you drank out of it, and another would give you your true love’s heart if she drank from it, and another would make you forget everything—yes, even your true love, and all your mirth and all your sorrow, and I think that was the best cup of all;” and again the gipsy laughed in the moonlight, and sang a little song to herself as she sat herself down before the potter.

“Now this is real child’s talk,” said the potter very impatiently. “’Tis easy to say your grandfather knew how to do all this, but why should I believe you? and because your grandfather may have been able to throw a bowl upon the wheel, that doesn’t make you know anything about the craft, or how it is done.”

“Nay, but he taught me too,” said the gipsy. “Give me a piece of your clay, and let me come to your wheel and you shall see.”

At first the potter thought she was talking nonsense, but to his great surprise she took hold of the clay in her little brown hands, and moulded and modelled it with the greatest skill. Then she placed it on the wheel and threw a little jug, and he wondered to see how deft she was.

“Now I will make you a little bowl,” she said, and then she made jugs and pots and jars, far more quickly and skilfully than the potter could have done. “And now I will colour them too,” she cried. “See, I shall catch the colour from the moon, and to-morrow you can put them into your kiln and bake them, and you may be sure that you have never had such pots there before.” Then she put her little brown hands out into the moonlight, and they were covered with rings which glittered and shone, but as she held up her palms to the moon’s rays, it seemed to the potter as if they too were full of some strange glittering liquid. “And now,” she said, “see, I will put it on to your pots, and I should think I had taught you that I know more about your trade than you do yourself.” And she took the pots in her hands and rubbed her palms over them, and she traced patterns on them with her fingers.

The potter looked at her and felt almost angry, but she only laughed in his face.

“And now one last thing,” she cried, “and that is, that I will make you a cup that has a spell in it, and it shall be a present for you to remember me by. It will be very plain, and there will be no gay colours in it, but when you give it to your true love to drink from, if once you have drunk from it yourself, you will have all her heart, but beware that she doesn’t take a second draught. For though the first draught that she drinks will be drunk to love, the second draught will be drunk to hate, and though she have loved you more than all else on earth, all her love will turn to hate when she drinks again. And as you are so ignorant how to make bowls and cups, you will not know how to fashion one so as to win back her love again.”

The potter stared in silence, while the gipsy took another bit of clay and placed it upon the wheel, and then she bent her head, which glittered with beads and coins, low over it, and placing her rosy lips close to the mouth of the cup, sang some words into it, while she moulded it with her hands, and turned the wheel with her foot. It was in some strange language that the potter had never heard before.

“Good-bye,” she said presently. “Now, there, that is for you, and be sure you do not sell the little brown cup, but keep it and give it to your true love to drink out of; but only one draught, for if there are two maybe you will need the gipsy’s help again.” Then she laughed, and nodding her head over her shoulder, tripped lightly away in the moonlight while the potter stared after her.

At first he thought he had been asleep, but there around him stood the little rows of jugs and pots which the gipsy had made, and truly they were beautifully done. He took them up, and turned them over in his hand, and wondered at their shape and workmanship.

“To-morrow,” he said, “I will put them into the kiln, and see how they come out. She certainly was a clever wench, and knew her work; but as for her talk about having coloured them, that was all nonsense, and as for breathing spells and charms into the cups, why it is like baby’s talk.”

But next day when the pots were baked, the potter was even more surprised, for they had the most wonderful colours that he had ever seen: silver, blue, grey and yellow, in all sorts of patterns, all save the little brown cup, which was the last the gipsy had made. But when he looked at it the potter felt a little uncomfortable, and began to wonder if it really did contain the charm as she had declared.

When the fair began, the potter placed all the gipsy’s wares on a stall with his own, and marked them with very high prices, but had he asked three times as much he could have got it, for there were some rich folk from the big houses who came to the fair, and they at once bought them all up, declaring that such pots and jugs they had never seen. At this the potter was well pleased, and found that he had made more money than he had earned in many a long month past; but when people wanted him to make them more like them, he was obliged to shake his head, and say, “That he was very sorry, but he had had them coloured from afar, and he did not know where he could now have them done.” Of the gipsy he saw nothing more, though he looked for her everywhere during the three days in which the fair lasted, but she was not to be seen, and when the fair was over, and the other people were packing their carts and vans to go on their way, he saw very many gipsies, and supposed that she had gone with some of them, without giving him the chance of speaking to her again.

Years went by, and the potter never heard anything more of the gipsy, indeed he would have thought it had all been a dream if it had not been for the little brown pot standing on the shelf. Sometimes he took it up, and looked at it, and wondered when he saw how well and cleverly it was made. He still laughed when he remembered what the gipsy had said about leaving a charm in it, for though he himself had drunk out of it many times, he never thought it had brought any spell on him.

One year when the fair was being held, the potter was at his place as usual with his stall covered with pots, and there came and placed herself beside him at the next stall a woman with some spinning-wheels. Her stall was covered with fine linen cloths woven in pretty patterns, and so fine and well wrought were they, that many people wanted to buy them. With her were her two daughters, and one sat at the spinning-wheel and spun the flax, and the other had a hand-loom and wove it when it was spun to show the good folk how the cloths were made. Both were pretty girls, but the girl who had the hand-loom had the sweetest face the potter had ever seen. Her eyes were very blue, and her hair was like golden corn, and when she smiled, it was as if the sun shone. The potter watched her as she sat weaving, and could not keep his eyes from her or attend properly to his own pots, or to the people who wanted to buy them. Every day he watched the young girl at her work, for the fair lasted for a week, and the more he looked at her the more he wanted to look, till at last he said to himself that somehow or other he must get her for his wife; so when the fair was done he begged her to marry him, and to remain with him, and he said he would always work for her, and she should want for nothing. The mother was a poor widow, and she and her daughters made their bread by going about the country spinning and weaving, and she would have been quite willing that the potter should marry her daughter, but the girl only laughed, and said that she scarcely knew the potter, but when she came back again the next year to the fair, she would give him his answer. So the widow and her two daughters went away, and no sign of them was left with the potter, save a lock of golden hair, which he had begged from the daughter.

The year passed away, but to the potter it seemed the longest year he had ever lived. He pined for the time to come when the fair should be held, and the widow and her daughters should return. As the time drew near he got down the brown cup, and looked at it again and again. “Nay,” he said, “what harm could it do? the gipsy said it would give me my true love’s heart if she drank out of it after I had drunk, and I have drunk out of it many a time. I don’t believe it, but all the same it would be no harm for her to drink from it.”

And so when the fair was opened, he took the brown cup down with him, and stood it upon the stall with his other ware. The spinning woman and her two daughters came back with their fine cloths, and their wheel and their loom, and when he saw the golden-haired girl, he loved her still more than before, for he thought her eyes were bluer and her smile was brighter. He watched her all the time as she sat weaving, but said nothing, but when the fair was over, and they were packing their goods to go on their way, he pressed the maid for her answer. Still she hesitated, and then the potter took the little brown cup off his stall, and poured into it some choice wine, and said to her,

“If then you wish to go away, and never see me again, I pray you drink one draught, in remembrance of the happy days we have had together.”

The young girl took the cup, but no sooner had she tasted it than she put it down and turned her eyes on the potter, and said in a low voice,

“I will stay with you always, if you want me, and will be a true wife to you, and love you better than anything on earth.”

So the potter married her, and she went to live in his little cottage.

Time passed, and the potter and his young wife lived together very happily, and every day he thought her fairer and sweeter. And they had a little baby girl with blue eyes like its mother’s, and the potter thought himself the happiest man on earth, and the little brown pot stood on the shelf, and the potter looked at it, and still he would not believe about the charm, for he said to himself, “My wife loved me for my own sake, and not for any silly charm or nonsense.”

“I pray you drink one draught, in remembrance of the happy days we have had together.”

So for a time all things went well, but there came a day when the potter had to go to a neighbouring town and leave his wife at home alone all day. When he was gone she sat by the window with her little child, and presently there came up outside a dark, rough-looking man, with a wicked face, and he looked at her as she sat rocking the cradle, and thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen on earth. When he looked at her the potter’s wife was frightened, but when he told her he was very hungry, and begged her for food and drink, she rose, for her heart was tender, and she fetched him bread and meat, and spread them on the table before him. So the rough man came into the cottage and sat at the table, and ate the potter’s bread and meat, and drank his wine. “And who is your husband, and where is he?” he said. “I am sure he is a lucky man to have such a wife and such a home.”

“Yes, truly,” said the potter’s wife. “We are very happy, and we love each other dearly, and we really have nothing else to wish for.”

Then the gipsy man said, “But your dress is plain, and your rooms are bare; now, were you the wife of some wealthy man, he would give you pearls and diamonds for your neck, and beautiful silks and satins.”

“No, but I don’t want them,” said the potter’s wife smiling. “My husband works very hard, and he gives me all he can, and I am quite content with it.”

“And you say he is a potter; then what sort of things does he make?” asked the gipsy man as he cast his eyes about the room, and they lit upon the little brown jug standing upon the shelf. “And did he make the little bowl there?”

“I don’t know,” said his wife, and she took it down and turned it about in her hand. “I suppose so, but he has told me it was very old.”

The gipsy man seized it eagerly, and poured wine in it, and looked inside it, and then he laughed, and stooping his head over it, said a few words, and then laughed again.

“I have seen cups like this before,” he said. “And they are worth a mint of money, though you would not think it. And have you never drunk out of it? Has it not been used?”

“I don’t drink from it,” said the potter’s wife, “but I believe I did so once, and that was on the day when I promised my husband I would be his wife.”

Then the gipsy laughed again and again. “See,” he said, “I am going a long way off, perhaps to die by cold and hunger by the road-side, while you and your husband are cosy and warm. You set small store by this cup, but it may be that in foreign countries I could sell it for what would keep me for many a long day. Give it to me, I pray you, that I may take it with me.”

The potter’s wife hesitated and trembled. She was afraid of the man, and she thought he had a hard, bad face, but she did not want to seem unkind.

“Well, take it,” she said; “but why should you want it?”

Then the gipsy man came and caught her by the arm. “Now,” he said, “you are the fairest woman I have ever seen, and I am going away, and shall never see you again. So I beg you wish me God-speed, and drink my health out of the little brown cup you have given me. And if your lips have touched it, it will be the dearest thing I have on earth!”

Then the potter’s wife was still more frightened, and trembled more than before. But the man looked so dark and threatening, that she did not like to refuse him, and she took the cup in her hand,