Kind William was trustworthy as well as obliging, and he kept his word.  He said nothing of his adventure.  He put the yellow lock into an old china teapot that had stood untouched on the mantelpiece for years.  And fishing up the river and down the river he never again cast net into the haunted pool.  And in course of time the whole affair passed from his mind.

Fourteen years went by, and Kind William was Kind William still.  He was as obliging as ever, and still loved the miller’s daughter, who, for her part, had not forgotten her old playmate.  But the miller’s memory was not so good, for the fourteen years had been prosperous ones with him, and he was rich, whereas they had only brought bad trade and poverty to the weaver and his son.  So the lovers were not allowed even to speak to each other.

One evening Kind William wandered by the river-side lamenting his hard fate.  It was his twenty-first birthday, and he might not even receive the good wishes of the day from his old playmate.  It was just growing dusk, a time when prudent bodies hurry home from the neighbourhood of fairy rings, sprite-haunted streams, and the like, and Kind William was beginning to quicken his pace, when a voice from behind him sang: 

    “Warp of woollen and woof of gold: 
    When seven and seven and seven are told.”

Kind William felt sure that he had heard this before, though he could not recall when or where; but suspecting that it was no mortal voice that sang, he hurried home without looking behind him.  Before he reached the house he remembered all, and also that on this very day his promise of secrecy expired.

Meanwhile the old weaver had been sadly preparing the loom to weave a small stock of yarn, which he had received in payment for some work.  He had set up the warp, and was about to fill the shuttle, when his son came in and told the story, and repeated the water sprite’s song.

“Where is the lock of hair, my son?” asked the old man.

“In the teapot still, if you have not touched it,” said Kind William; “but the dust of fourteen years must have destroyed all gloss and colour.”

On searching the teapot, however, the lock of hair was found to be as bright as ever, and it lay in the weaver’s hand like a coil of gold.

“It is the song that puzzles me,” said Kind William.  “Seven, and seven, and seven make twenty-one.  Now that is just my age.”

“There is your warp of woollen, if that is anything,” added the weaver, gazing at the loom with a melancholy air.

“And this is golden enough,” laughed Kind William, pointing to the curl.  “Come, father, let us see how far one hair will go on the shuttle.”  And suiting the action to the word, he began to wind.  He wound the shuttle full, and then sat down to the loom and began to throw.

The result was a fabric of such beauty that the Weavers shouted with amazement, and one single hair served for the woof of the whole piece.