If Laura had been astonished before, she was still more so now, and so much so that she really could not collect her thoughts. She felt like crying, but she could not; she felt angry, but there was no way of venting anger; so she just sat still on the floor awhile and counted the nails in the boards. This had the happiest effect, for, after she had gone over and over the nails, a few quiet thoughts came to her.

First she must make herself clean; so, dropping all her clothes, she gave herself, for the first time in her life, a good scrubbing. She made a great splashing, and succeeded in getting the floor very wet; but she also made herself very sweet and nice, and found plenty of clean clothes ready for her hanging on the pegs. Then she went down below and ate a whole loaf of bread and drank about a quart of milk. This also had a good effect, for she began to face the situation, and determined to do her best. As she sat meditating, she heard a great noise among the fowls, and it reminded her of what she had to do. Going to the cupboard in search of food for them, she found a slip of paper and a key; on the slip of paper was written:

Her doubts were now dispelled, and, doing as the paper directed, she opened the door into a large, cool, rock cellar, full of provisions of all kinds.

On the shelves were pots of butter and lard, pans of sweet milk and curds, empty pans shining, all ready for fresh milk, a milking-pail and stool. Hams and tongues hung from the roof, with bunches of sweet herbs. Barrels of flour and sugar, vinegar and molasses, were in another room off the large one. Opening a closet, she found jars of clear jellies and delicious preserves. Every fruit that one could think of was here, crystallized in the most inviting manner.

Nothing was wanting, not even cheeses or pickles, and on a shelf by itself was a chicken-pie as if for her immediate use when hungry.

Grain for the fowls stood ready in huge bags, and she knew, because Nannette had told her, that sour milk was good for the pigs. After surveying all these goodly stores, she went out to the chickens, just in time to drive away a great hawk which was creating much fear among them. Then Mr. Pig was attended to; but it was with much quaking that she carried the milking-stool into the barn where waited the patient cow. Never in all her life had she attempted this. Once or twice she had watched the cowherds at the castle, and she hardly dared to think of anything now in that dear home. Mooly was very quiet and good, and glad to be relieved; but poor little Laura's fingers ached when her duty was ended, and she was very tired by the time she had emptied the milk into the pans and locked the rock cellar. Then she sat herself down in the cottage doorway, and had a little homesick cry, and wondered if her mother was playing on her harp in the great parlor of the castle, and if she longed to see her little daughter.

The twilight lingered, the stars peeped out, and weary little Laura still sat, listening to the crickets, watching the fire-flies as they flashed their tiny lamps in her face, and half humming the refrain of a song of her mother's which seemed to be in tune to the falling waters of the cascade. Then to bed, and the sweetest slumber came to the lonely little maiden.

Thus passed two, three, four days. Laura all alone, busy as a bee, finding always something to do, gathering berries, arranging flowers, living like a wild bird on what she could find—for she did not dare try any cooking. But bread and milk, cheese, and cold chicken-pie, and a dip into the jelly jars occasionally were very good fare, and the roses had come into her cheeks and a healthful glitter in her eyes. She was lonely, but she was not unhappy, and when, to her great surprise, the Motherkin walked in one evening with Grim hobbling behind, she gave a great shout of joy, and sprang into the Motherkin's arms.

"Well done, little Laura! Think you I have not known how charmingly you have kept house for me?"

"How could you, dear Motherkin? and how can you ever forgive me for running off as I did?"

"Ah! we will let by-gones be by-gones; you have had all the punishment necessary; now we must see what we can do to entertain our little guest. Poor Grim has his herbs, but he has also a sprained ankle which we must nurse. How have you liked being my maid?"

Laura hung her head as she replied: "Truly, I have enjoyed it. Is it ladylike for me to have done so?"

"Surely it is, and, if you will have the patience to learn, I will make you proficient in many other homely duties, such as knitting and spinning."

"But the peasants do those things."

"Well, the peasants are happy."

"But I shall not live as they do."

"No matter; it is well you should understand all things; they may serve you, they may not; they will teach you in many other ways. You will learn to have sympathy for all; you will learn to be patient and painstaking."

"Then I will try."

"That is all I ask. And now suppose I tell you all about these wonderful herbs?" Picking up a sprig of each, the Motherkin related its qualities, while Laura, with a pencil and paper, wrote down her words; then she fastened each sprig in a slip of paper with its name attached. After this she assisted the Motherkin in dressing Grim's ankle, carrying warm water, and rolling the bandage, while Grim looked on with a funny face, holding his cap with its scarlet tassel in one hand, and with the other supporting himself in his chair.

Then the fire had to be lighted and tea made, and Laura no longer was awkward, but very alert, for now she had the willing spirit which makes everything so much easier to do than where there is reluctance.

After tea, Grim said he would tell her what he had seen on his little journey, so, drawing near the chairs upon which he was resting, the Motherkin and Laura listened to the old man's tale.