Go on, good steed; may thy golden shoes enable thee to carry little Christin over in safety!

Alas! alas! In spite of the golden shoes, the palfrey stumbled, and little Christin was thrown into the calm, still waters.

Down, down she sank, deep down; and before Sir Peter had even time to dismount she was no longer to be seen.

He would have plunged in to save her; but this he knew would be of no avail, and they would both perish in Ringfalla's flood.

He turned, therefore, to his little footpage.

'Go swiftly,' quoth he, and bring me my golden harp.'

And the footpage mounted his master's charger and away he rode full fleetly.

It seemed an age to Sir Peter till the page returned, but he came at last bearing the harp with him.

Now it may be asked, of what use can a harp be to drowning people?

It would be none at all now-a-days, but then these are not the days of wonders. Those old fairy times have passed away, and there is no trace of them left upon the earth.

Then, too, it may be said: 'Surely Christin must be dead by this time, she has been so long under the water.'

Ah! but she has not been drowning; she has been visiting a mighty palace underneath the waves of Ringfalla, and has seen sights of which mortals have never dreamed,—strange water-plants whose flowers have petals of pure crystal, and whose long leaves are like bands of soft green velvet, twisting round the pillars of the palace. And great shining pebbles of blue, and green, and crimson studding the yellow sand. And curious creatures of brilliant hues, of every shape and size, crawling, or swimming, or darting hither and thither on delicate wing-like fins, so that one might suppose them to be waterbutterflies.

And Christin knows that in this river-palace she must live for ever if Sir Peter should not be able to win her back from the ugly sprite who has made her his captive as he did her two sisters long ago.

And whilst she is thinking of all this, and the ugly sprite is sitting grinning at her, suddenly a sound so soft and beautiful comes through the

TEARS

waters that the ugly sprite leaves off grinning and listens to it attentively.

It is Sir Peter striking the first chord on his harp.

And the ugly sprite, turning away from Christin, rose up to the top of the flood, and there he sat upon a wave and laughed.

Sir Peter spoke no word, but he struck the harp a second time.

And a sweet murmuring note stole over the waters, and the waves carried it on and on until it died away for ever.

And as the ugly sprite heard it he sprang ashore, and, throwing himself on the mossy turf, he wept aloud.

Still Sir Peter spoke never a word, but struck his harp for the third time.

And a soft white arm was raised above the stream. It was little Christin's arm.

But Sir Peter spake never a word, but still went on playing.

Presently Christin lifted her head above the water and looked at him.

Of course Sir Peter was overjoyed, but he did not let his joy run away with his good sense. He knew that what had come to pass was all owing to