ld in mind so sweet a tale) the story of her kindness to the little
orphan, Olga.

'Twas no slight task the old Flax-spinner took upon herself, the day she
brought the helpless child to share the shelter of her thatch. The Oak
outside her door held up his arms in solemn protest.

"Thou dost but waste thyself," he said. "Thy benefits will be forgot,
thy labours unrequited. For Youth is ever but another title for
Ingratitude."

"Nay, friend," the old Flax-spinner said. "My little Olga will not be
ungrateful and forgetful."

All hedged about with loving care, the orphan grew to gracious
maidenhood, and felt no lack of father, mother, brother or sister. In
every way the old Flax-spinner took their places. But many were the
sacrifices that she made to keep her fed and warmly clad, and every time
she went without herself that Olga might receive a greater share,
Wiseacre Oak looked down and frowned and shook his head.

Then would the old dame hasten to her inner room, and there she pricked
herself with her spindle, until a great red drop of her heart's blood
fell into her trembling hand. With witchery of words she blew upon it,
and rolled it in her palm, and muttering, turned and turned and turned
it. And as the spell was laid upon it, it shrivelled into a tiny round
ball like a seed, and she strung it on a thread where were many others
like it, saying, "By this she will remember. She will not be ungrateful
and forgetful."

So years went by, and Olga grew in goodness and in beauty, and helped
the old Flax-spinner in her tasks as blithely and as willingly as if
she were indeed her daughter. Every morning she brought water from the
spring, gathered the wild fruits of the woods, and spread the linen on
the grass to bleach. At such times would the bent old foster-mother hold
herself erect, and call up to the Oak, "Dost see? Thou'rt wrong! Youth
is _not_ another title for Ingratitude."

"Thou hast not lived as long as I," would be the only answer.

One day as Olga was wandering by the spring, searching for watercresses,
the young Prince of the castle rode by on his prancing charger. A
snow-white plume waved in his hat, and a shining silver bugle hung from
his shoulder, for he had been following the chase.

He was thirsty and tired, and asked for a drink, but there was no cup
with which to dip the water from the spring. But Olga caught the drops
as they bubbled out from the spring, holding them in the hollow of her
beauti