under her eye. But the Nymph caressed her with soft words: “Fear not, dear little one,” said she, “I am thy godmother, come to me. See, here is thy plaything which fell into the spring.” And with these words, she took up the little Matilda in her lap, pressed her tenderly to her bosom, embraced and kissed her, and moistened her with tears. “Poor orphan,” said she, “I have promised to take a mother’s place to thee, and I will fulfil it. Visit me often, thou wilt always find me in this grotto, if thou wilt throw a stone into the spring. Examine this musk-apple carefully, and do not play with it, for fear of losing it; it will grant thee three wishes. When thou art grown up I will tell thee more; now thou canst not comprehend.” She then gave her many good admonitions, suited to the child’s age, and enjoined perfect silence as to what had happened. The nurse came back, and the Nymph disappeared.
The proverb says, “Now-a-days, no child is prudent; in olden times it was different.” The little Matilda, at least, was a wise and cautious child; she had discretion enough not to mention her lady godmother to her nurse, but, on her return home, asked for a needle and thread, and sewed up the musk-apple carefully in the lining of her dress. Her wishes and thoughts were now all directed to the Nixa’s spring; as often as the weather allowed, she obliged her nurse to take a walk; and because she could not refuse anything to the coaxing child, and this desire seemed natural to her, (for the grotto had been her mother’s favourite resting-place,) she the more willingly agreed to the wish of the little one. The child always knew how to find a pretext to send her nurse away; and as soon as she had turned her back, the stone fell into the water, and procured for her the society of the charming godmother. After a few years the little orphan bloomed into maidenhood, and her beauty opened like a bud of the hundred-blossoming rose, which, transplanted among a crowd of variegated flowers, shone forth in modest dignity. She bloomed, it is true, only in a narrow garden; she lived retired among the servants, and when her luxurious mother feasted, she was never brought in, but sat in her chamber, occupied with household work; and in the evening, after accomplishing her day’s task, she found ample compensation for the noisy joys from which she was excluded, in the society of the Nymph of the Fountain; she was not only her companion and friend, but also her teacher; she instructed the maiden in all the arts of womanly skill, and formed her mind and habits after the example of her virtuous mother. One day the Nymph seemed to redouble her tenderness towards the charming Matilda, she clasped her in her arms, drooped her head on her shoulders, and was so melancholy and sorrowful, that the maiden, too, was infected by it, and could not refrain from letting some tears fall on her godmother’s hand, as she silently kissed her. At this mutual feeling the Nymph was still more sorrowful:
