“Here, mother,” cried Porfirie, “is thy dear daughter, my sweet bride, whom I found up yonder, quite near the sky; and I am not yet sure whether she be not indeed one of the heavenly inhabitants, that will presently spread wings and flee away from us!”
“Oh, thou beauteous lady!” cried Alba, and fell at the feet of the Queen, who raised her up and kissed her with great kindness.
“And thou art spinning too,” she went on, “only far, far more beautifully than my mother; for what thou dost spin is as soft and fine as snowflakes, or the petals of flowers.”
“What does thy mother spin, then?”
“Oh, always that hard, ugly gold!”
“Gold!” echoed the bystanders; and many laughed, and did not believe the maiden’s words.
“Canst thou, too, spin gold?”
“I can, but I may not.”
“Why not?”