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“Why,” said she, “don’t you take down the sprig of dill and the verse?”

“Why, sure enough!” said they in amazement. “Why didn’t we think of that before?”

So Dame Clementina ran out quickly, and pulled down the sprig of dill and the verse.

Then the way the people hurried out of the yard! They fairly danced and flourished their heels, old folks and all. They were so delighted to be able to move, and they wanted to be sure they could move. The robbers tried to get away unseen with their silver milk-pans, but some of the people stopped them, and set the pans safely inside the dairy. All the people, except the count, were so eager to get away, that they did not stop to inquire into the cause of the trouble then.

Afterward, when they did, they were too much ashamed to say anything about it.

It was a good lesson to them; they were not quite so envious after that. Always, on entering any cottage, they would glance at the door, to see if, perchance, there might be a sprig of dill over it. And if there was not, they were reminded to put away any envious feeling they might have toward the inmates out of their hearts.

As for the count, he had not been so much alarmed as the others, since he had been to the wars and was braver. Moreover, he felt that his dignity as a noble had been insulted. So he at once dismounted and fastened his horse to the gate, and strode up to the door with his sword clanking and the plumes on his hat nodding.

“What,” he begun; then he stopped short. He had recognized his daughter in Dame Clementina. She recognized him at the same moment. “O, my dear daughter!” said he. “O, my dear father!” said she.

“And this is my little grandchild?” said the count; and he took Nan upon his knee, and covered her with caresses.

Then the story of the dill and the verse was told. “Yes,” said the count, “I truly was envious of you, Clementina, when I saw Nan.”

After a little, he looked at his daughter sorrowfully. “I should dearly love to take you up to the castle with me, Clementina,” said he, “and let you live there always, and make you and the little child my heirs. But how can I? You are disinherited, you know.”

“I don’t see any way,” assented Dame Clementina, sadly.

Dame Elizabeth was still there, and she spoke up to the count with a curtesy.

“Noble sir,” said she, “why don’t you make another will?”

“Why, sure enough,” cried the count with great delight, “why don’t I? I’ll have my lawyer up to the castle to-morrow.”

He did immediately alter his will, and his daughter was no longer disinherited. She and Nan went to live at the castle, and were very rich and happy. Nan learned to play on the harp, and wore snuff-colored satin gowns. She was called Lady Nan, and she lived a long time, and everybody loved her. But never, so long as she lived, did she pin the sprig of dill and the verse over the door again. She kept them at the very bottom of a little satin-wood box–the faded sprig of dill wrapped round with the bit of paper on which was written the charm-verse:

“Alva, aden, winira mir,
Villawissen lingen;
Sanchta, wanchta, attazir,
Hor de mussen wingen.”