“Mark says,” chimed in Rosamond, “that there is a dragon at the bottom of the well; and I want to see him.”

“A dragon?” cried Bradford,—­“Mark is a story-teller, and you are a goose;—­but if there is one, I will catch him for you";—­and he stood on the brink of the well, and sportively threw his line into it.

“You are a pretty fellow to talk about catching a dragon, Brad!” retorted Mark, a little nettled at the tone in which Bradford spoke of him,—­“you can’t even catch a shiner!”—­and he glanced at Bradford’s empty basket.

Bradford laughed louder than before.  “And for that very reason I expect to catch the dragon.  One kind of a line will not catch all kinds of fish; and this line may be good for nothing but dragons, after all.—­There!  I’ve got a bite.  Stand back, Rosy,” cried he, “the dragon will be on the grass in a minute.”

Bradford tried to pull up his line, but it was either entangled among the stones, or had some heavy object attached to it, for the rod bent beneath the weight as he with a strong pull endeavored to draw up his prize.  Rosamond’s eyes opened to their widest extent, and, fully expecting to see the dragon swinging wide-mouthed in the air over her head, drew a little closer to Mark, who, on his part, wondered what Bradford was at, and whether he was not playing some trick upon him.

When the end of the line rose to the top of the well, they saw suspended by the two hooks, not a winged, scaly monster, but a small rusty box, in the fastenings of which the hooks had caught.

Rosamond drew a long breath,—­“Is that all, Bradford?  I am so sorry!  I thought, to be sure, you had the dragon.”

“Never mind the dragon, Rosy,” cried he; “let us see what I have caught.

“Who knows but the purse of Fortunatus or the slipper of Cinderella may be in here?—­they have been lost for many a day, and nobody knows where they are.”

Bradford knelt down on the grass, and, unhooking his line, strove to undo the rusty hasp; but it resisted all the efforts of his fingers, and it was only by the aid of a knife and a stone that he opened the box.  In it was a morocco case, much discolored, but still in tolerable preservation, from which he drew a small manuscript book.

Rosamond’s disappointment was greater than before.  “It is nothing but a writing-book, after all,” said she.  “I wish you had not said anything about the purse or slipper, and then I should never have thought of them.  You never heard anybody say where they thought the purse and slipper were hid,—­did you?”

“Come, Rosy,” cried Mark, “come down to the meadow; there is nothing more to be got out of the old well.  Let us leave Brad alone with his book and his fish.”

The children turned away towards the meadow,—­Rosamond meditating upon the probability of her ever finding the purse and slipper, if she should ever set out in quest of them, and Mark thinking what a fool such a big fellow as Bradford must be, to mind any woman that ever was born.