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“I wish–” said Aldegunda, timidly, “I should like–the blind man to have the silver crown, and for us to keep the penny, if you can get it back out of the hat.”

“That’s just the way you go on,” said the boy angrily. “You always think differently from me. Now remember, Aldegunda, I won’t marry you when you grow big, unless you agree with what I do, like the wife in the story of ‘What the Goodman does is sure to be right.'”

On hearing this, Aldegunda sobbed till she burst the strings of her hat, and the boy had to tie them afresh.

“I won’t marry you at all if you cry,” said he.

But at that she only cried the more, and they went away bickering into the green lanes.

As to the old man, he had heard nothing; and when the dog licked his withered hand, he smiled.

Many a time did the boy return with his playmate to try and get the Talking Dog. But the Dog always asked if he had yet got all that he wanted, and, being an honorable child, the boy was too truthful to say that he was content when he was not.

“The day that you want nothing more but me I will be your dog,” it said. “Unless, indeed, my present master should have attained perfect happiness before you.”

“I am not afraid of that,” said the boy.

In time the Mayor died, and his widow moved to her native town and took her son with her.

Years passed, and the Blind Man lived on; for when one gets very old and keeps very quiet in his little corner of the world, Death seems sometimes to forget to remove him.

Years passed, and the Mayor’s son became a man, and was strong and rich, and had a fine black charger. Aldegunda grew up also. She was very beautiful, wonderfully beautiful, and Love (who is blind) gave her to her old playmate.

The wedding was a fine one, and when it was over the bridegroom mounted his black charger and took his bride behind him, and rode away into the green lanes.

“Ah, what delight!” he said. “Now we will ride through the town where we lived when we were children; and if the Blind Man is still alive, you shall give him a silver crown; and if the Talking Dog is alive, I shall claim him, for to-day I am perfectly happy and want nothing.”

Aldegunda thought to herself–“We are so happy, and have so much, that I do not like to take the Blind Man’s dog from him;” but she did not dare to say so. One–if not two–must bear and forbear to be happy even on one’s wedding day.

By-and-bye they rode under the crab-tree, but the seat was empty. “What has become of the Blind Man?” the Mayor’s son asked of a peasant who was near.

“He died two days ago,” said the peasant. “He is buried to-day, and the priest and chanters are now returning from the grave.”

“And the Talking Dog?” asked the young man.

“He is at the grave now,” said the peasant; “but he has neither spoken nor eaten since his master died.”

“We have come in the nick of time,” said the young man triumphantly, and he rode to the church-yard.

By the grave was the dog, as the man had said, and up the winding path came the priest and his young chanters, who sang with shrill, clear voices–“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”

“Come and live with me, now your old master is gone,” said the young man, stooping over the dog. But he made no reply.

“I think he is dead, sir,” said the grave-digger.

“I don’t believe it,” said the young man fretfully. “He was an Enchanted Dog, and he promised I should have him when I could say what I am ready to say now. He should have kept his promise.”

But Aldegunda had taken the dog’s cold head into her arms, and her tears fell fast over it.

“You forget,” she said; “he only promised to come to you when you were happy, if his old master were not happier first; and, perhaps,—-“

“I remember that you always disagree with me,” said the young man, impatiently. “You always did do so. Tears on our wedding-day, too! I suppose the truth is that no one is happy.”

Aldegunda made no answer, for it is not from those one loves that he will willingly learn that with a selfish and imperious temper happiness never dwells.

And as they rode away again into the green lanes, the shrill voices of the chanters followed them–“Blessed are the dead. Blessed are the dead.”