“And whom is it for, O Pilgrim, pray? 
  For thee, Sweetheart, should’st thou go that way.”

At last she ventured to open her eyes.  The rainbow had faded almost entirely away, only a few tender rose and green shades were arching over her; but the Pot of Gold under her hand was still there, and shining brighter than ever.  All the pine needles with which the ground around it was thickly spread, were turned to needles of gold, and some stray couplets of leaves which were springing up through them were all gilded.

Flax bent over it trembling and lifted the lid off the pot.  She expected, of course, to find it full of gold pieces that would buy the grand house and the gardener and the maid that her father had spoken about.  But to her astonishment, when she had lifted the lid off and bent over the Pot to look into it, the first thing she saw was the face of her mother looking out of it at her.  It was smaller of course, but just the same loving, kindly face she had left at home.  Then, as she looked longer, she saw her father smiling gently up at her, then came Poppy and the baby and all the rest of her dear little brothers and sisters smiling up at her out of the golden gloom inside the Pot.  At last she actually saw the garden and her father in it tying up the roses, and the pretty little vine-covered house, and, finally, she could see right into the dear little room where her mother sat with the baby in her lap, and all the others around her.

Flax jumped up.  “I will run home,” said she, “it is late, and I do want to see them all dreadfully.”

So she left the Golden Pot shining all alone under the pine-tree, and ran home as fast as she could.

When she reached the house it was almost twilight, but her father was still in the garden.  Every rose and lily had to be tied up after the shower, and he was but just finishing.  He had the tin milk pan hung on him like a shield, because it rhymed with man.  It certainly was a beautiful rhyme, but it was very inconvenient.  Poor Mother Flower was at her wits’ end to know what to do without it, and it was very awkward for Father Flower to work with it fastened to him.

Flax ran breathlessly into the garden, and threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him.  She bumped her nose against the milk pan, but she did not mind that; she was so glad to see him again.  Somehow, she never remembered being so glad to see him as she was now since she had seen his face in the Pot of Gold.

“Dear father,” cried she, “how glad I am to see you!  I found the Pot of Gold at the end of the rainbow!”

Her father stared at her in amazement.

“Yes, I did, truly, father,” said she.  “But it was not full of gold, after all.  You was in it, and mother and the children and the house and garden and—­everything.”

“You were mistaken, dear,” said her father, looking at her with his gentle, sorrowful eyes.  “You could not have found the true end of the rainbow, nor the true Pot of Gold—­that is surely full of the most beautiful gold pieces, with an angel stamped on every one.”