Then Maritza's mother, who had been busy getting refreshments ready, came in exclaiming, "Time for work, girls!" At this there was a general cry of "Maritza!" "We want Maritza!" "Maritza must be our leader!" Maritza stepped forward with some show of reluctance. "There are better spinners and better singers than I am," she said modestly. But the girls, rising quickly, formed a ring around her, singing in chorus, "It's you we want." Then Maritza took her spindle and began to spin. At the same time she improvised a strange song all about a mysterious _heiduk_ or chieftain who passed through their village. Suddenly she threw her spindle to the black-eyed, red-cheeked maiden, holding it by a long thread as she did so. The merry maiden caught it and was obliged to continue both the spinning and singing while Maritza pulled out the flax. This required much dexterity. When each girl had had her turn, both in spinning and singing, refreshments were passed around. There was _mamaliga_, baked pumpkin, potatoes, and last of all, plenty of popcorn. Then, while all seated resumed their work, one of their number was begged for a story. She smilingly consented, and told the following strange and pathetic tale. THE STORY OF A LILAC TREE "This is a story of what once must have taken place, for if it had never occurred, I would not now have it to tell. "In a little valley among the high mountains, there lived a maiden all alone. She worked all day at her spinning and weaving and sang with joy as she worked. "So the years went on, each year adding loveliness to her face and figure. One day when out gathering firewood for her small needs she heard what sounded like a cry of pain. Making her way into the thicket she found a man sorely wounded. "She spoke to him but he had become unconscious, and, not knowing what else to do, she took him in her strong arms and carried him to her hut and laid him on her own bed. Then she washed out his wounds and tended him like a sister. "As soon as he could speak, he tried to express his gratitude. 'Dear maiden,' he said, 'had it not been for you I should never again have seen the light of day, and even as it is, I fear I shall never walk again. For it was no ordinary mortal by whom I was wounded, but a demon of some kind who threatened that even should I survive, all power to move my legs will have left me. Of what good will life then be to me? Trouble yourself no longer, sweet maiden, to cure me. Rather let my wounds bleed anew.' "But the beautiful girl shook her head. 'Why should we believe all that ill?' she said. 'I am skilled in herb lore and shall cure you.' "For more than a week the man lay in bed while the girl tended him. And she grew to love him, he was so patient, so grateful for all she did. Then, one morning, he looked brightly at her: 'Lo, I am cured.' And he sat up in bed. But when he tried to get down he could not.