asked the old man.

"In the teapot still, if you have not touched it," said Kind William;
"but the dust of fourteen years must have destroyed all gloss and
colour."

On searching the teapot, however, the lock of hair was found to be as
bright as ever, and it lay in the weaver's hand like a coil of gold.

"It is the song that puzzles me," said Kind William. "Seven, and
seven, and seven make twenty-one. Now that is just my age."

"There is your warp of woollen, if that is anything," added the
weaver, gazing at the loom with a melancholy air.

"And this is golden enough," laughed Kind William, pointing to the
curl. "Come, father, let us see how far one hair will go on the
shuttle." And suiting the action to the word, he began to wind. He
wound the shuttle full, and then sat down to the loom and began to
throw.

The result was a fabric of such beauty that the Weavers shouted with
amazement, and one single hair served for the woof of the whole piece.

Before long there was not a town dame or a fine country lady but must
needs have a dress of the new stuff, and before the sixty-three hairs
were used up, the fortunes of the weaver and his son were made.

About this time the miller's memory became clearer, and he was often
heard to speak of an old boy-and-girl love between his dear daughter
and the wealthy manufacturer of the golden cloth. Within a year and a
day Kind William married his sweetheart, and as money sticks to money,
in the end he added the old miller's riches to his own.

Moreover there is every reason to believe that he and his wife lived
happily to the end of their days.

And what became of the water sprite?

That you must ask somebody else, for I do not know.

MURDOCH'S RATH[8].

[Footnote 8: _Rath_ = a kind of moat-surrounded spot much favoured by
Irish fairies. The ditch is generally overgrown with furze-bushes.]

There was not a nicer boy in all Ireland than Pat, and clever at his
trade too, if only he'd had one.

But from his cradle he learned nothing (small blame to him with no one
to teach him!), so when he came to years of discretion, he earned his
living by running messages for his neighbours; and Pat could always be
trusted to make the best of a bad bargain, and bring back all the
change, for he was the soul of honesty and good-nature.

It's no wonder then that he was beloved by every one, and got as much
work as he could do, and if the pay had but fitted the work, he'd have