garments. But maybe someone may be coming this way ere long, who
will deem the bird the finer for her fine feathers. Now depart from
me; for I would both work for thee and me, and ponder weighty
matters.

Who was glad now but Birdalone; she grew red with new pleasure, and
knelt down and kissed the witch's hand, and then went her ways to the
wood with her precious lading, and wrought there under her oak-tree
day after day, and all days, either there, or in the house when the
weather was foul. That was in the middle of March, when all birds
were singing, and the young leaves showing on the hawthorns, so that
there were pale green clouds, as it were, betwixt the great grey
boles of oak and sweet-chestnut; and by the lake the meadow-saffron
new-thrust-up was opening its blossom; and March wore and April, and
still she was at work happily when now it was later May, and the
hare-bells were in full bloom down the bent before her.

All this while the witch had meddled little with Birdalone, and had
bidden her to no work afield or in the stead which was anywise
grievous, but had done all herself; yet was she few-spoken with her,
and would oft behold her gloomily. And one evening when Birdalone
came in from the wood, the witch came close up to her and stared her
in the face, and said suddenly: Is it in thine heart to flee away
from me and leave me?

A sharp pang of fear shot through Birdalone's heart at that word, and
she turned very red, and then pale to the lips, but stammered out:
No, lady, it is not in mine heart. The dame looked grimly on her and
said: If thou try it and fail, thou shalt rue it once only, to wit,
lifelong; and thou canst but fail. She was silent a while, and then