The maid at once began to pull hairs out of her head, and did not stop till she had counted sixty-three, and laid them together in her fingers. She then began to wind the lock up into a curl, and it took far longer to wind than the sixty-three hairs had taken to pull. How long her hair really was Kind William never could tell, for after it reached her knees he lost sight of it among the fern; but he began to suspect that she was no true village maid, but a water sprite, and he heartily wished himself safe at home. "Now," said she, when the lock was wound, "will you promise me three things?" "If I can do so without sin," said Kind William. "First," she continued, holding out the lock of hair, "will you keep this carefully, and never give it away? It will be for your own good." "One never gives away gifts," said Kind William, "I promise that." "The second thing is to spare what you have spared. Fish up the river and down the river at your will, but swear never to cast net in this pool again." "One should not do kindness by halves," said Kind William. "I promise that also." "Thirdly, you must never tell what you have now seen and heard till thrice seven years have passed. And now come hither, my child, and give me your little finger, that I may see if you can keep a secret." But by this time Kind William's hairs were standing on end, and he gave the last promise more from fear than from any other motive, and seized his net to go. "No hurry, no hurry," said the maiden (and the words sounded like the rippling of a brook over pebbles). Then bending towards him, with a strange smile, she added, "You are afraid that I shall pinch too hard, my pretty boy. Well, give me a farewell kiss before you go." "I kiss none but the miller's lass," said Kind William, sturdily; for she was his little sweetheart. Besides, he was afraid that the water witch would enchant him and draw him down. At his answer she laughed till the echoes rang, but Kind William shuddered to hear that the echoes seemed to come from the river instead of from the hills; and they rang in his ears like a distant torrent leaping over rocks. "Then listen to my song," said the water sprite. With which she drew some of her golden hairs over her arm, and tuning them as if they had been the strings of a harp, she began to sing: "Warp of woollen and woof of gold: When seven and seven and seven are told." But when Kind William heard that the river was running with the cadence of the tune, he could bear it no longer, and took to his heels. When he had run a few yards he heard a splash, as if a salmon had jumped, and on looking back he found that the yellow-haired maiden was gone.