“That night the prince paid her so many compliments and singled her out so often to bestow his favours, that Olga’s head was turned.  She tossed it proudly, and quite scorned the thought of the humble cottage which had given her shelter so long.  The next day, when she had returned to her gown of tow, and was no longer a haughty court lady, but only Olga, the flax-spinner’s maiden, she repined at her lot.  Frowning she carried the water from the spring.  Frowning she gathered the cresses and plucked the woodland fruit.  And then she sat all day by the spring, refusing to spread the linen on the grass to bleach.

“She was discontented with the old life of toil, and pouted crossly because duties called her when she wanted to do nothing but sit idly dreaming of the gay court scenes in which she had taken a bright, brief part.  The old flax-spinner’s fingers trembled as she spun, when she saw the frowns, for she had given of her heart’s blood to buy happiness for the maiden she loved, and well she knew there can be no happiness where frowns abide.  She felt that her years of sacrifice had been in vain.

“That night outside the castle gate Olga paused.  She had forgotten the charm.  The day’s discontent had darkened her memory as storm clouds darken the sky.  But she grasped her necklace imperiously.

“‘Deck me at once!’ she cried, in a haughty tone.  ’Clothe me more beautifully than mortal maid was ever clad before, so that I may find favour in the prince’s sight and become the bride of the castle.  I would that I were done for ever with the spindle and the distaff.’

“But the moon went under a cloud and the wind began to moan around the turrets.  The black night hawks in the forests flapped their wings warningly, and the black bats flitted low around her head.

“‘Obey me at once!’ she cried, angrily, stamping her foot and jerking at the necklace.  But the string broke and the beads went rolling away in the darkness in every direction, and were lost.  All but one, which she held clasped in her hand.

“Then Olga wept at the castle gate; wept outside in the night and the darkness, in her beggar’s garb of tow.  But after awhile, through her sobbing, stole the answering sob of the night wind.  ‘Hush-sh!’ it seemed to say.  ’Sh-sh!  Never a heart can come to harm, if the lips but speak the old dame’s charm.’

“The voice of the night wind sounded so much like the voice of the old flax-spinner that Olga was startled and looked around wonderingly.  Then suddenly she seemed to see the little thatched cottage and the bent form of the lonely old woman at the wheel.  All the years in which the good dame had befriended her seemed to rise up in a row, and out of each one called a thousand kindnesses as with one voice:  ’How canst thou forget us, Olga?  We were done for thee, for love’s sweet sake, and that alone.’

“Then was Olga sorry and ashamed that she had been so proud and forgetful, and she wept again.  The tears seemed to clear her vision, for now she saw plainly that through no power of her own could she wrest strange favours from fortune.  Only the power of the old charm could make them hers.  She remembered it then, and holding fast to the one bead in her hand, she repeated, humbly: