the man, "but all the same he must learn it
for your sake. I will deal with him."

So he took the unruly sprite out into the desert and gave him a
sound beating with thorn branches. The blood ran down the poor little
creature's arms and legs, and the teats down the man's cheeks. But the
only words that he said were: "You must learn to want what she wishes
--do you hear?--you must want what she wishes." At last the sprite
whimpered and said: "Yes, I hear; I will wish what she wants." Then the
man stopped beating him, and went back to his house, and wrote a little
story that was really good.

But the sprite lay on his face in the desert for a long time, sobbing as
if his heart would break. Then he fell asleep and laughed in his dreams.
When he awoke it was night and the moon was shining silver. He rubbed
his eyes and whispered to himself, "Now I must find out what she wants."
With that he leaped up, and the moonbeams washed him white as he passed
through them to the lady's house.

The next afternoon, when the man came to read her the really good story,
she would not listen.

"No," she said, "I am very angry with you."

"Why?"

"You know well enough."

"Upon my honour, I do not."

"What?" cried the lady. "You profess ignorance, when he distinctly said--

"Pardon," said the man, "but who said?"

"Your unruly sprite," she answered, indignant. "He came last night
outside my window, which was wide open for the moon, and shot an arrow
into my breast--a little baby arrow, but it hurt. And when I cried
out for the pain, he climbed up to me and kissed the place, saying that
would make it well. And he swore that you made him promise to come. If
that is true, I will never speak to you again."

"Then of course," said the man, "it is not true. And now what do you
want me to do with this unruly sprite?"

"Get rid of him," said she firmly.

"I will," replied the man, and he bowed over her hand and went away.

He stayed for a long time--nearly a week--and when he came back he
brought several sad verses with him to read. "They are very dull," said
the lady; "what is the matter with you?" He confessed that he did not
know, and began to talk learnedly about the Greek and Persian poets,
until the lady was consumed with a fever of dulness.

"You are simply impossible!" she cried. "I wonder at myself for having
chosen such a friend!"

"I am sorry indeed," said the man.

"For what?"

"For having disappointed you as a fri