he pitcher
than you thought,--that is all."

"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very
uncommon people."

"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They
certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily
glad to see them making so comfortable a supper."

Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.
Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of
opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each
separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice.
It was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been
produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage
wall.

"Very admirable grapes these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed
one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray,
my good host, whence did you gather them?"

"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its
branches twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never
thought the grapes very fine ones."

"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this
delicious milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better
than a prince."

This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher;
for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the
marvels which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old
wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in
what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case,
that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the
pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied
that it contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however,
he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of
the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and
deliciously fragrant milk. It was lucky that Philemon, in his
surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand.

"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers?" cried he, even more bewildered
than his wife had been.

"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder
traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet
and awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may
your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more
than for the needy wayfarer!"

The s