the cold meat in a pan, which
the woman of the heath used to cook her own dinner in, and she asked
for leave to do so.

"You may do anything you like to make yourself comfortable, if you do
it yourself," said she; and Amelia, who had been watching her for many
times, became quite expert in cooking up the scraps.

As there was no real daylight underground, so also there was no night.
When the old woman was tired she lay down and had a nap, and when she
thought that Amelia had earned a rest, she allowed her to do the same.
It was never cold, and it never rained, so they slept on the heath
among the flowers.

They say that "It's a long lane that has no turning," and the hardest
tasks come to an end some time, and Amelia's dresses were clean at
last; but then a more wearisome work was before her. They had to be
mended. Amelia looked at the jagged rents made by the hedges; the great
gaping holes in front where she had put her foot through; the torn
tucks and gathers. First she wept, then she bitterly regretted that she
had so often refused to do her sewing at home that she was very awkward
with her needle. Whether she ever would have got through this task
alone is doubtful, but she had by this time become so well-behaved and
willing that the old woman was kind to her, and, pitying her blundering
attempts, she helped her a great deal; whilst Amelia would cook the old
woman's victuals, or repeat stories and pieces of poetry to amuse her.

"How glad I am that I ever learnt anything!" thought the poor child:
"everything one learns seems to come in useful some time."

At last the dresses were finished.

"Do you think I shall be allowed to go home now?" Amelia asked of the
woman of the heath.

"Not yet," said she; "you have got to mend the broken gimcracks next."

"But when I have done all my tasks," Amelia said; "will they let me go
then?"

"That depends," said the woman, and she sat silent over the fire; but
Amelia wept so bitterly, that she pitied her and said--"Only dry your
eyes, for the fairies hate tears, and I will tell you all I know and do
the best for you I can. You see, when you first came you were--excuse
me!--such an unlicked cub; such a peevish, selfish, wilful, useless,
and ill-mannered little miss, that neither the fairies nor anybody else
were likely to keep you any longer than necessary. But now you are such
a willing, handy, and civil little thing, and so pretty and graceful
withal, that I think it i