Hanička.—Why is Grandmother so alarmed?

Miller.—And today in particular I think neither the motherwort nor the bast rope will be necessary. (While talking, he has put the pen and ink into the corner cupboard and is about to carry off the chronicle. As he is closing it he catches a glimpse of sprigs of thyme. He quickly places the chronicle book on the table again and bends towards it.)

Hanička stands beside him. Míchal, the water sprite, takes his place unnoticed by the open window, then suddenly seats himself on the window, gazing longingly at Hanička.

Miller (Turning the pages of the chronicle).— O, thyme. Here’s a sprig, here are several sprigs, and here and here.—Hanička—

Hanička.—Now you know where I hid the thyme. It will breathe upon you from of the chronicle; will give out fragrance.

Miller.—And through that fragrance I shall think of you, you, my sprig of thyme. (As they bend over the book, he places his hand on her shoulder.) I will not give you up, they shall not even dare to touch you. (Míchal gives a deep sigh. Hanička turns around and screams faintly.) You! O, you evil spirit! (Raises his arm as if about to strike the water sprite.)

Míchal (Frowns at him angrily).—Well, come on, then!

Grandmother (Enters from the little room, carrying several twigs of motherwort).—Here is some motherwort. Ah! (Hanička nestles up to her.)

Míchal (Defiantly).—Come on!

Miller.—Just a minute! (Springs tot he cupboard for the rope.)

Míchal (Longingly).—Hanička! Little sunbeam!

Miller (With the rope in his hands).—I’m coming! (Chases after the water sprite.)

Míchal.—I’ll come again, though. (Vanishes from the window. A slight rattling is heard, then a splash.