be found every day. Even though she should be something of a witch,
such a girl would none the less be a treasure in a family. The
steward, who was a bachelor, made this wise reflection that night on
going to bed. Before dawn he rose to make his rounds in the direction
of the stranger's cottage. By the first gleam of day he spied
something shining in the distance like a light among the woods. On
reaching the place, he was greatly surprised to find a golden cottage
instead of the wretched hut that had stood there the day before. But,
on entering the house, he was much more surprised and delighted to
find a beautiful young girl, with raven hair, sitting by the window
and spinning on her distaff with the air of an empress.

Like all men, the steward did himself justice, and knew, at the bottom
of his heart, that there was not a woman in the world that would not
be too happy to give him her hand. Without hesitating, therefore, he
declared to Finette that he had come to marry her. The young girl
burst out laughing, upon which the steward flew into a passion.

"Take care!" said he, in a terrible voice. "I am the master here. No
one knows who you are or whence you came. The gold that you gave the
old woman has raised suspicions. There is magic in this house. If you
do not accept me for a husband this very instant, I will arrest you,
and before night, perhaps, a witch will be burned before Kerver
Castle."

"You are very amiable," said Finette, with a charming grimace; "you
have a peculiar way of paying court to ladies. Even when they have
decided not to refuse, a gallant man spares their blushes."

"We Bretons are plain-spoken people," replied the steward; "we go
straight to the point. Marriage or prison, which do you choose?"

"Oh!" cried Finette, laying down the distaff, "there are the
firebrands falling all over the room."

"Don't trouble yourself," said the steward; "I will pick them up."

"Lay them carefully on the top of the ashes," returned Finette. "Have
you the tongs?"

"Yes," said the steward, picking up the crackling coals.

"_Abracadabra!_" cried Finette, rising. "Villain, may the tongs hold
you, and may you hold the tongs till sunset!"

No sooner said than done. The wicked steward stood there all day with
the tongs in his hand, picking up and throwing back the burning coals
that snapped in his face and the hot ashes that flew into his eyes. It
was useless for him to shout, pray, weep, and blaspheme; no