You count the bubbles that come up--one for A, two for B, &c.,--and they'll give you the initial of your future lover.
With _very_ great luck, you might see his shadow in the pool, but that does not often happen." "I don't believe in it, of course, but I'll try for fun! The Giant King won't get much in the way of a bouquet to-day!" Quenrede, protesting her scepticism, but all the same palpably enjoying the magic experiment, picked an indifferent nosegay of the few buttercups, hawkweeds, and late pieces of scabious which were the only flowers available.

Then she removed her hair-pins, and, letting down a shower of flaxen hair, commenced her winding pilgrimage among the old gray stones.

There is a vein of superstition in the most modern of minds, and she was probably following a custom that had come down the ages from the days when our primitive ancestresses clothed themselves in skins and twisted their prehistoric locks with pins of mammoth ivory.
In and out and in and out, with Ingred, like an attendant priestess, behind her, she performed the necessary itinerary, and laid her floral offering upon what may have been the remains of a neolithic altar.

The pool below was dark and boggy and brown with peat.

She took a good-sized pebble, and flung it into the middle with a terrific splash.