And Hans obeyed and praised the virtue of the magic potion, and from that time each one took a drop every Sunday when the church-bell was ringing. And Greta bloomed like a rose, and Hans’s veins swelled with health and strength. But he postponed the confession of his deed from day to day, for he hoped in his heart to yet find the water of youth; but roam through the forest as he would he could not discover the meadow where the wood-sprite lived. Thus passed some years. A small maiden joined the little boy, and Frau Greta’s once round chin had become double. She herself certainly saw it not, for the mirror was not yet in existence in those days. Hans saw it, indeed, but avoided speaking of it, and redoubled his love for his portly wife. Then there happened a misfortune. At least Greta held it to be such. As she swept the house one day the small Peter, her eldest, came upon the cupboard in which stood the bottle with the supposed water of youth and clumsily overthrew the bottle, so that it broke and the contents were spilled. “Oh, thou gracious Heaven!” lamented the mother. “It is lucky, though, that Hans is not at home.” With trembling hands she gathered up the fragments from the floor and replaced the bottle by another, which she filled with ordinary water. “Certainly the deception will soon be found out, for now is it all over with the everlasting youth. Alas, alas!” But for the present she did not wish to tell her husband anything about it. Again considerable time passed, and the couple lived together as on the day when the priest had joined their hands in marriage. Each one carefully avoided letting the other know that youth was past, and each Sunday conscientiously took the magic drop. Then it happened that one morning a gray hair remained between Hans’s fingers as he combed his hair. And he thought: “Now is the time for me to tell the truth to my wife.” With a heavy heart, he began: “Greta, it seems to me that our water of youth has lost its strength. Look there! I have found a gray hair. I am getting old.” Greta was frightened, but composed herself, and, forcing a loud laugh, cried: “A gray hair! When I was a little girl, ten years old, I had even then a gray lock amid my hair. The like has frequently happened. Thou hast lately dressed a badger; perhaps something has happened to your hair from the fat, for badger’s fat, you know, colors the hair gray. No, dear Hans, the water has not lost its old virtue, or”--here she cast an anxious glance on him--“or perhaps thou also findest that I am growing old?” Now Hans laughed very loudly. “Thou, old! Thou bloomest, indeed, like a peony!” And then he threw his arms about her and gave her a kiss. But when he was alone he said, with quiet thankfulness: “God be thanked! She knows not that we are getting old. Now it matters not.” And similarly thought the wife.