A Marvel, 89

 

had set leaning against the side the last thing
before dropping work the previous night: it must
have blocked up the opening, and prevented the
water from getting out as fast as before, that is, as
fast as the spring rose. Therefore he now laid
hold of the rope, which was still connected with
the stone, and, not aware of how the water would
help him by partly floating it, was astonished to
find how easily he moved it. At once it swung
away from the side into the middle of the well;
the water ceased to run over the edge, with a loud
gurgling began to sink, and sank down and down
and down until the opening by which it escaped
was visible.

“ Ah! now, now I understand !” cried Mr Mac-
michael. “It’s the old well of the Priory you’ve —
come upon, you little burrowing mole.”

“Sandy helped me out with the stones. I
thought there might be a treasure down there,
and that set me digging. It was a funny treasure
to find—wasn’t it? No treasure could have been
prettier though.”

“Tf this be the Prior’s Well, and all be true
they said about it in old times,” returned his
father, “it may turn out a greater treasure than
you even hoped for, Willie. Why, as I found
some time ago in an old book about the monas-
teries of the country, people used to come from
great distances to drink the water of the Prior’s