In the old homestead on the hill, the year wore on merrily, for Beauty made great sunshine in that place. Her light step and the music of her happy voice seemed everywhere--all about the house, in the low dark rooms and up and down the creaking stair. A glory seemed to shine round her lovely face when you saw it at the door. Like the wild birds, she was for ever flitting here and there, and singing as she went. She lent the young strength of her white arms to the ancient crone who kept the house. She came wherever she was called. It was Beauty who drew the water and kneaded the cakes, and led the cows to pasture in the dewy grass-lands in the morning. It was Beauty who set the table, and made ready for father and hungry brothers against their return at evening, from the long day’s work. Right glad and willing was she, to labour from red dawn to dark, for the love she bore them. And whatever work she set her hand to, wheresoever she did any service, all things she touched seemed nobler, since that she had to do with them. But greater joy she had otherwhile, on the days when she was sent to keep goats upon the hill. Strong and light of foot herself as a young kid, she climbed the rugged paths among the rocks, following after her wayward herd. Many a day would she wander with them through the great woods till the sun was low. But ever as she went, on the hills under the blue sky, or through the forest amid the green darkness of noonday, sea and sky, and sun and shadow, taught the maiden marvellous things. Many a secret did the wind whisper; many a strange tale her eyes read in the flowery grass; many a song, for her alone, sang the mountain stream, hurrying over the stones. And when Beauty led home her flock at sun-down, after such sweet days as these they noted how, when she crossed the threshold and came into the dark house-room, her eyes would shine with a diviner light, than the full health of youth only might give. [Illustration]