“So much the better,” said the gnome. “For though I am a woman myself, I detest women, and only get on with men.” “You a woman!” cried the ploughman, and he laughed outright. “Of course I am a woman,” said the creature. “Come, say quickly, do you like to have me for a lodger or not? Of course you will have to agree to my terms.” “And what are your terms?” asked the ploughman. “Only this. Whatever comes into the house, you must always give the best of it to me. I will choose where I shall live for myself, when I see the house, but of all the food you have, you must save the best and give it to me. Not much of it, but the very best pieces. As you are a man I cannot wear your clothes, but you can give me some of their material, and of everything else that comes into the house of any sort, tobacco, or carpets, or furniture, I must have some of the best. And at meals I must always be helped first. If you agree to this, I may stay with you for a very long time.” “Oh, oh,” said the ploughman, “and pray what shall I get by it? It seems to me as if you wanted to get the best of everything and give nothing in return.” “On the contrary,” replied the gnome, “I shall give a very great deal. For as long as I remain in your house, all things will go well with you. You are a poor man now, but you will soon be a rich one. If you sow seeds they will give twice as much crop as other people’s. All your animals will do well, and in a little time, instead of being a poor ploughman, you will be the richest farmer in the countryside.” “Well,” quoth the ploughman, “I don’t mind trying. I think it would rather amuse me to take you to my cottage; but if you don’t keep your part of the bargain, and I don’t find things are going very well with me, I warn you I’ll pretty soon turn you out.” “Agreed,” said the gnome; “but remember, if you fail in your compact with me, I shall go by myself. Now carry me home and let me choose where I will live.” The ploughman carried the odd little figure back to his cottage, gaping with astonishment; there he put it down on the kitchen-table in the little kitchen. It looked all round it, and twisted about its little black head. “That will do nicely,” it said at last; “there is a little hole in that corner, down which I can go, and near that hole you must place all your daintiest bits, and remember that I must always be helped first at all your meals.” And without a word it leaped from the table, and scuttled away down a big hole that the rats had made, and was no more to be seen.