e under the snow."

CHAPTER XL.

ALL IS WELL.

The ravens flew across the valley and over the mountains, past a humble
cottage where sat an old woman at the window, spinning coarse yarn,
while big tears rolled down her withered cheeks upon the threads she
spun. It was Franzl. The tidings that Lenz with his whole household had
been buried in the snow had reached Knuslingen, and men from her
village had gone to their rescue. Franzl would gladly have gone with
them and done her part; but her poor old feet refused to bear her.
Moreover, she had lent her one good pair of shoes to a poor woman who
had to go to the doctor's. In the midst of her sorrow Franzl often
clapped her hands to her stupid head and said to herself: Why did I not
think of it yesterday, while he was here? it is too late now. I had it
on my tongue's end to tell him he must make provision against being
snowed up. We were thrice snowed up for days at a time, and such an
accident should be provided for every winter. It is too late now. The
old mistress was right in saying, as she did a hundred times: "Franzl,
you are always very clever, an hour behind the time."

The ravens that now flew past her window might have told Franzl to dry
her tears, for the buried family was saved. Unhappily man cannot
understand the ravens, and is a long while conveying his good news
across mountain and valley.

At evening a sleigh with merry jingling bells came driving up to the
door. What could it want? there was no one at home but Franzl. It
stopped just before her window. Who was getting out from it? was it not
Pilgrim? She tried to go to meet him, but her strength failed her.

"Franzl, I have come for you," cried Pilgrim. The old woman rubbed her
forehead. Was it a dream? or what was it? "Lenz and his household are
saved," continued Pilgrim; "and I am sent to fetch you, most high and
mighty princess Cinderella. Will you trust yourself to the Swan."

"I have no shoes," stammered out Franzl.

"For that reason I have brought you fur boots that will just fit your
little foot," returned Pilgrim; "and here is the skin, I mean the
sheep-skin, of the monster Petrovitsch. You must drive with me,
well-beloved Franzl of Knuslingen, Fuchsberg, and Knebringen. Your
magic spinning-wheel you must leave behind, unless it chooses to hop
after us on its wooden legs.

"'So gird thyself, my Gretchen,