“And if you had a little child,” said the woman, rising up and standing before the shepherd’s wife, “you think you would really love it better than anything in the world. Many women say that, but few do it. Before long a little child will be born to you, and as long as you love it better than anything in the world it will remain with you, but when you love anything else better than your little daughter and her happiness, it will go from you; so remember my words. Good-bye,” and the woman walked to the door and went quietly out into the rain, and the shepherd’s wife saw her disappearing, and the rain pelting around her, but her clothes were not blown about, neither did the rain seem to wet her. [Illustration] A year passed away, and the shepherd’s wife had a tiny daughter, a lovely little baby with the bluest eyes and the softest skin; the evening she was born the wind howled and the rain fell as fiercely as on the night when the grey woman had come into the shepherd’s cottage. The shepherd and his wife both loved their little daughter very dearly, as well they might, as no fairer child was ever seen. But as she grew older, some things about her frightened her mother, and she had some ways of which she could not cure her. [Illustration] She would never go near a fire, however cold she was, neither did she love the sunshine, but always ran from it and crept into the shade; but when she heard the rain pattering against the window-panes she would cry, “Listen, mother, listen to my brothers and sisters dancing,” and then she would begin to dance too in the cottage, her little feet pattering upon the boards; or, if she possibly could, she would run out on to the moor and dance, with the rain falling upon her, and her mother had much ado to get her to come back into the cottage, yet she never seemed to get very wet, nor did she catch cold. [Illustration] A river ran near the cottage, and by it she would go and sit for hours dabbling her feet in the water, and singing sweet little songs to herself. [Illustration]