The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood
before him again.
“Now it’s done,” she said; “but I shall have half the beer to brew over
again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have you to ask me?
I’ve come back, for I always keep my word, and you have seven four-
leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a six-leaved one. That
inspires respect, for that’s an order that grows beside the sandy way; but
that every one does not find. What have you to ask me? Don’t stand there
like a ridiculous oaf, for I must go back again directly to my bung and my
cask.”
And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the Moor-woman had
met it in her journeyings.
“By the big brewing-vat!” exclaimed the woman, “haven’t you got stories
enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them. Here are
other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even the children
have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and the little girl a new
crinoline; they like that much better. To listen to stories! No, indeed, there
are more important things to be done here, and other things to notice!”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the man, “and what do you know of
the world? You don’t see anything but frogs and Will-o’-the-Wisps!”
“Yes, beware of the Will-o’-the-Wisps,” said the Moor-woman, “for
they’re out-they’re let loose-that’s what we must talk about! Come to me in
the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will tell you all about it;
but you must make haste, and come while your seven four-leaved
shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still fresh, and the moon stands
high!”
And the Moor-woman was gone.
It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had died away, the
man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood in the meadow. The
mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her brewing.
