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Presently she came to a spring, bubbling out from the hill-side.

Some one had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water—­but the water was already running over, for the can was no bigger than an egg-cup!  And where the sand upon the path was wet—­there were foot-marks of a very small person.

Lucie ran on, and on.

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The path ended under a big rock.  The grass was short and green, and there were clothes—­props cut from bracken stems, with lines of plaited rushes, and a heap of tiny clothes pins—­but no pocket-handkerchiefs!

But there was something else—­a door! straight into the hill; and inside it some one was singing—­

    “Lily-white and clean, oh! 
     With little frills between, oh! 
      Smooth and hot—­red rusty spot
     Never here be seen, oh!”

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Lucie, knocked—­once—­twice, and interrupted the song.  A little frightened voice called out “Who’s that?”

Lucie opened the door:  and what do you think there was inside the hill?—­a nice clean kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams—­just like any other farm kitchen.  Only the ceiling was so low that Lucie’s head nearly touched it; and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything there.

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There was a nice hot singey smell; and at the table, with an iron in her hand stood a very stout short person staring anxiously at Lucie.

Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped petticoat.  Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and underneath her cap—­where Lucie had yellow curls—­that little person had PRICKLES!

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“Who are you?” said Lucie.  “Have you seen my pocket-handkins?”

The little person made a bob-curtsey—­“Oh, yes, if you please’m; my name is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh, yes if you please’m, I’m an excellent clear-starcher!” And she took something out of a clothes-basket, and spread it on the ironing-blanket.

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“What’s that thing?” said Lucie—­“that’s not my pocket-handkin?”

“Oh no, if you please’m; that’s a little scarlet waist-coat belonging to Cock Robin!”

And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side.

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Then she took something else off a clothes-horse—­

“That isn’t my pinny?” said Lucie.

“Oh no, if you please’m; that’s a damask table-cloth belonging to Jenny Wren; look how it’s stained with currant wine!  It’s very bad to wash!” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

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Mrs. Tiggy-winkle’s nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire.

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“There’s one of my pocket-handkins!” cried Lucie—­“and there’s my pinny!”