The Old Woman laughed at this, and sprang about quite delighted on her crutch. “Don’t get angry, dear Sir,” said she, “you are growing as red in the face as a turkey-cock! Carry your bundle patiently. I will give you a good present when we get home.” What could he do? He was obliged to submit to his fate, and crawl along patiently behind the Old Woman. She seemed to grow more and more nimble, and his burden still heavier. All at once, she made a spring, jumped on to the bundle and seated herself on the top of it. And however withered she might be, she was yet heavier than the stoutest country lass. The youth’s knees trembled, but when he did not go on, the Old Woman hit him about the legs with a switch and with stinging-nettles. Groaning continually, he climbed the mountain, and at length reached the Old Woman’s house, when he was just about to drop. When the geese perceived the Old Woman, they flapped their wings, stretched out their necks, ran to meet her, cackling all the while. Behind the flock walked, stick in hand, an old wench, strong and big, but ugly as night. “Good Mother,” said she to the Old Woman, “has anything happened to you, you have stayed away so long?” “By no means, my dear Daughter,” answered she, “I have met with nothing bad, but, on the contrary, with this kind gentleman, who has carried my burthen for me. Only think, he even took me on his back when I was tired. The way, too, has not seemed long to us. We have been merry, and have been cracking jokes with each other all the time.” At last the Old Woman slid down, took the bundle off the young man’s back, and the baskets from his arm, looked at him quite kindly, and said, “Now seat yourself on the bench before the door, and rest. You have fairly earned your wages, and they shall not be wanting.” Then she said to the goose-girl, “Go into the house, my little Daughter, it is not becoming for you to be alone with a young gentleman. One must not pour oil on to the fire, he might fall in love with you.” The Count knew not whether to laugh or to cry. “Such a sweetheart as that,” thought he, “could not touch my heart, even if she were thirty years younger.” In the meantime, the Old Woman stroked and fondled her geese as if they were children, and then went into the house with her daughter. The youth lay down on the bench, under a wild apple-tree. The air was warm and mild. On all sides stretched a green meadow, which was set with cowslips, wild thyme, and a thousand other flowers. Through the midst of it rippled a clear brook on which the sun sparkled, and the white geese went walking backward and forward, or paddled in the water. “It is quite delightful here,” said he, “but I am so tired that I cannot keep my eyes open. I will sleep a little. If only a gust of wind does not come and blow my legs off my body, for they are as brittle as tinder.”