strance; he took off his jacket, and struck his pickaxe into the hard, dry soil near the point where the cane rested.
Geoffrey Purcill was a choleric old gentleman, who, having had his own way all his life, was by no means inclined to forego that privilege now that he was advanced in years. As he sat beneath the chestnut-tree, one warm spring day, he felt very thirsty, and he suddenly thought what a good thing it would be to have a well there, so that he might refresh himself with a draught of clear, cool water, without the trouble of returning to the house. The more thirsty he grew, the pleasanter seemed the project to him,—a large, deep well, neatly stoned, with a sweep and buckets,—it would be a pretty object to look at, as well as comfort to man and beast. The well should be digged forthwith, and what Geoffrey Purcill once resolved upon he was not slow to execute; and, despite the remonstrances of those who knew better than he, the work was commenced at once.
A more unpromising place for a well could not have been selected in all his extensive grounds; but he was not a man to be patiently baffled even by Nature herself, and he stood looking with grim satisfaction at the hole which rapidly widened and deepened under the vigorous efforts of his sturdy workmen.
Day after day old Geoffrey watched his workmen on the knoll. The well increased in size till it was large enough to have watered a whole caravan,—but the desert of Sahara itself was not drier. Geoffrey fumed, raved, and swore; and when two of the men were killed by the falling of the earth, and the rest absolutely refused to work any longer, he bade them go, a pack of ungrateful scoundrels as they were, and, procuring more laborers, declared "he would dig there till the Devil came to fetch him."
Geoffrey was as good as his word;—he labored with a pertinacity worthy of a better object, and dug deeper into the bowels of the earth, and partly stoned his well,—but no water, save that which fell from heaven, ever appeared in it.
And when old Geoffrey was gathered to his fathers, he left his house and grounds to his only daughter, Eleanor Purcill, on the express condition that the well was not to be filled up, but to remain open till water did come into it.
One July day, when Geoffrey Purcill had been some twenty years with his fathers, or with Satan, (which two destinies might have been one and the same, after all, for he came of a turbulent, wicked race,) two children, a boy and girl, sat on the brink of the well and looked down into it. It was half filled with the rubbish of the fallen stones, but it was still deep, and dark enough to tempt their curious eyes into trying to discover what lay hidden in its shadowy depths. The great chestnut-tree, rich with drooping, feathery blossoms, shaded them from the burning sun,—a few stray beams only finding their way through the glossy leaves, and resting on the golden curls of the girl.
The boy leaned over the well, and peered into it;—the little girl bent forward, as if to do the same, but drew back again.
"Take hold of my hand, Mark," said she, "and let me lean over as you do."
"What do you want to look in for?" asked the boy,—"there is nothing to see. Oh, yes," continued he, mischievously, "there is a horrid dragon, just such as St. George fought with, lying all curled up in the bottom of the well, with fire and smoke coming out of his mouth."
Rosamond Purcill was too true a descendant of old Geoffrey to be frightened at the thought of a dragon. She caught hold of Mark's arm to steady herself, and leaned over the well.
"Let me see! let me see!" cried she, eagerly.
Mark made one or two feints of pushing her in, but at last held her firmly by the waist, while she looked in vain for the fabulous monster below.
"Where is he, Mark? I don't see anything, and I don't believe you saw him."
