e.

"The pan must be dirty," muttered the good woman, in great vexation;
"and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs."

"_And that's fourpence_," added the voice in the chimney.

After a thorough cleaning, the saucepan was once more filled and set
on the fire, but with no better success. The milk was hopelessly
spoilt, and the housewife shed tears of vexation at the waste, crying,
"Never before did such a thing befall me since I kept house! Three
quarts of new milk burnt for one meal!"

"_And that's sixpence_," cried the voice from the chimney. "_You
didn't save the tinkering after all Mother_!"

With which the Hillman himself came tumbling down the chimney, and
went off laughing through the door.

But thenceforward the saucepan was as good as any other.

THE NECK.

A Legend of a Lake.

On a certain lake there once lived a Neck, or Water Sprite, who
desired, above all things, to obtain a human soul. Now when the sun
shone this Neck rose up and sat upon the waves and played upon his
harp. And he played so sweetly that the winds stayed to listen to him,
and the sun lingered in his setting, and the moon rose before her
time. And the strain was in praise of immortality.

Furthermore, out of the lake there rose a great rock, whereon dwelt an
aged hermit, who by reason of his loneliness was afflicted with a
spirit of melancholy; so that when the fit was on him, he was
constantly tempted to throw himself into the water, for his life was
burdensome to him. But one day, when this gloomy madness had driven
him to the edge of the rock to cast himself down, the Neck rose at the
same moment, and sitting upon a wave, began to play. And the strain
was in praise of immortality. And the melody went straight to the
heart of the hermit as a sunbeam goes into a dark cave, and it
dispelled his gloom, and he thought all to be as well with him as
before it had seemed ill. And he called to the Neck and said, "What is
that which thou dost play, my son?"

And the Neck answered, "It is in praise of immortality."

Then said the hermit, "I beg that thou wilt play frequently beneath
this rock; for I am an aged and solitary man, and by reason of my
loneliness, life becomes a burden to me, and I am tempted to throw it
away. But by this gracious strain the evil has been dispelled.
Wherefore I beg thee to come often and to play as long as is
convenient. And yet I cannot offer thee any reward, for I am poor