when the young man saw the poor
serving-man he came to him and took him by the hand, and set him beside
himself at the table. "Nobody except your comrade could be so welcome
as you," said he, "and this is why. An enemy of mine one time gave me a
ruby ring, and though I knew nothing of it, it was the ring of discord
that bred strife wherever it came. So, as soon as it was brought
into the house, my wife and all my friends fell out with me, and we
quarrelled so that they all left me. But, though I knew it not at that
time, your comrade was an angel, and took the ring away with him, and
now I am as happy as I was sorrowful before."

By the next night the servant had come back to his home again. Rap! tap!
tap! He knocked at the door, and the wise man who had been his master
opened to him. "What do you want?" said he.

"I want to take service with you again," said the travelling servant.

"Very well," said the wise man; "come in and shut the door."

And for all I know the travelling servant is there to this day. For he
is not the only one in the world who has come in sight of the fruit of
happiness, and then jogged all the way back home again to cook cabbage
and onions and pot-herbs, and to make broth for wiser men than himself
to sup.

That is the end of this story.

"I like your story, holy sir," said the Blacksmith who made Death sit in
a pear-tree. "Ne'th'less, it hath indeed somewhat the smack of a sermon,
after all. Methinks I am like my friend yonder," and he pointed with
his thumb towards Fortunatus; "I like to hear a story about treasures of
silver and gold, and about kings and princes--a story that turneth out
well in the end, with everybody happy, and the man himself married in
luck, rather than one that turneth out awry, even if it hath an angel in
it."

"Well, well," said St. George, testily, "one cannot please everybody.
But as for being a sermon, why, certes, my story was not that--and even
if it were, it would not have hurt thee, sirrah."

"No offence," said the Blacksmith; "I meant not to speak ill of your
story. Come, come, sir, will you not take a pot of ale with me?"

"Why," said St. George, somewhat mollified, "for the matter of that, I
would as lief as not."

"I liked the story well enough," piped up the little Tailor who had
killed seven flies at a blow. "Twas a good enough story of its sort, but
why does nobody tell a tale of good big giants, and of wild boars, and
of unicorns, such as