“Daughter,” she croaked in a voice like a raven’s, “will you direct me in the way to the palace?” The Princess pointed in the direction from which she had just come. “Go a little distance with me,” implored the hag, “and help me to carry this bundle I have got on my back.” Poor Moonflower was very tired, but she took up the bundle and, telling Grimaçon to await her in the same spot, she walked off with her strange companion. When they had gone for about half a mile the old woman stopped her. “A thousand thanks,” she croaked, “and now, I will give you the reward of your civility.” So saying, she plucked a leaf from a neighbouring bush and presented it to the astonished girl. “When you are in distress think of me and touch this leaf with the third finger of your left hand.” And, almost before the words were out of her mouth, she had disappeared. Full of surprise, the Princess went back to where the faithful dwarf awaited her and told him her adventure. “And now,” she said, “I will touch my leaf and we shall be out of this terrible wood, where I feel sure there are nothing but monsters and savage beasts who will tear us limb from limb. It will certainly save us from our difficulties.” “No, your Royal Highness,” he replied, “at least let us wait till the wild beasts come—we may be in very much worse straits yet. Let us reserve our resources till then.” They journeyed on through the forest, and, at last, arrived at a little stream which ran merrily along till it came to a fallen branch lying right across it, and against which so many leaves and twigs had drifted that the course of the water was stopped. The stream was forced out of its bed, and beat itself against the bank. “Look at that pretty stream,” remarked Moonflower, “how sadly it dribbles along beyond the fallen branch. The water cannot pass it. See, Grimaçon, with what difficulty it flows.” And she bent down and broke the branch in two, for it was but a slight thing. All the accumulated leaves and twigs sailed away and the stream flowed on in a thousand beautiful ripples; at the same time a voice sang the following words:— “Princess, should you need a friend, The grateful stream its aid will lend; Should you need me, call, I pray, Hear the words that you must say,— ‘River rise and river fall, Send the help for which I call.’ —But, call me not till hope is lost, Or dear the words to you may cost.” “Well,” observed Grimaçon, who had heard these lines, “friends are not to be despised when one has fallen upon bad times, whatever shape they may assume—or even if they assume no shape at all!”