In the night, when she could not sleep, she listened to every slight sound, in the hope that her little friends would appear again. But nothing ever happened; it was only the hoot of an owl outside, or the squeak of a mouse. The gnomes never came forth again from their underground realm. So, in the day time she read and sewed, pondering how she could go to the nearest town to change her money and buy many little things for her comfort and for the improvement of the little hut. Her gold pieces she had hidden well behind a green tile on the hearth. Finally, the snow began to melt, the sun became warmer, the fields lost their coat of white, the meadows became green, and spring had come. When Easter arrived, she had already planted her garden and stripped the roses of their winter coverings. The snow drops and gillyflowers were blossoming by the brook; the cowslips were poking their yellow caps out of their beds, and over the fields the larks sang joyously. The herb woman placed her treasure in a covered basket, shut the hens in their coops, put fresh grass in Speckle's manger, let the dog, Rover, into the yard, locked the door of the little hut and went on her way to town. She walked lightly, as if she had grown younger during the winter and did not at all mind the long journey. In town she was surprised at what she received for her gold; if she should live a hundred years, she could not use all her money. So it was placed in a bank for safe keeping and the people treated her with great respect. They knew that she had come from a good family, but as she had lived so modestly, no one knew how wealthy she was. When she had made her purchases and finished her business, she wished to rest awhile in town, but word had come that the heavy rain in the mountains had caused the snow to melt and the water to rush down in torrents. She knew very well how bad the brook became when it was swollen and she worried lest the hut might be carried away and something happen to Speckle. So she hurried home and, on the way, she saw the swollen brook stretched out over the meadows like a lake. When she reached the village, it was dark, and already the people were beginning to light up their houses. Many of the little foot bridges had been swept away, the water reached nearly to the village square and she found it impossible to cross the stream. The torrent raged and stormed, bearing along branches, small trees and cakes of ice. In vain the old lady peered across the bank to the farther shore in the attempt to see if her little hut was still standing; but the darkness was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. There was nothing left for her to do but to ask the good villagers for shelter over night. [Illustration]