At the close of the harvest-tide, the Princess Celestia, only daughter of the King and Queen of the country, was going to be married. Now it chanced that the Queen, her mother, was famous in the land as a maker of cake, and presently this good lady promised her daughter a wedding cake so splendid and delicious that painters would beg to be allowed to paint its portrait, and poets to praise it in glorious and immortal song. Yes, the Queen would make the cake with her own white hands, the batter should be mixed in a golden bowl with a golden spoon, the two best hens in the kingdom should be summoned to lay the eggs, the oven should have a door of diamonds, and as for the flour, that should come from the finest fields and the best mill in all the land. “I know what I’ll do; I’ll offer a rich reward for the best flour,” said the good Queen. And calling the royal herald to her presence, she bade him summon all good millers to strive for the prize, and to bring of their new flour to the palace at the close of the harvest yield. Now it chanced that the Queen’s herald, all dressed in blue-and-white and sounding a silver horn, came cantering first to the water-miller’s door. “I should like to win that treasure,” said the water-miller to himself, musing in the doorway. “After all, my flour _is_ better than the wind-miller’s meal. That treasure should be mine, must be mine. Yes, mine, mine, mine!” Now it was the custom of the country for millers to visit the farms in midsummer, view the growing, green grain, and bargain with the husbandmen for the yield of the tossing fields. Suddenly the water-miller, coveting the treasure, determined to purchase all the standing grain, so that the wind-miller should not have any good grain to grind! And this he did, forgetting the while that the deed was sharp and unfriendly. A day or two passed, and presently the wind-miller climbed to the saddle of his fat white steed, and rode away to buy his customary grain. Alas, there was none to be had. Every turn of the road disclosed new fields of grain, but every single ear was pledged to the miller by the brook! At first--I must tell you--the wind-miller was more hurt than angry at his old crony’s trickery; but the more he thought of it the angrier he grew. Storming about the windmill in a rage, he gave a great roar for Cecily, and when the frightened maiden appeared before him, he bade her dismiss all thoughts of Valentine from her heart, and consider herself fortunate to be rid of the son of such a father. The water-miller, however, was not to be outdone. The moment he heard of the wind-miller’s wrath, he too fell into a rage, and presently forbade Valentine, on pain of dismissal, so much as to look at the maiden Cecily.