At the edge of a French village, in a small cottage with a garden full of weeds, there lived a widow with two daughters. Fanchon, the younger, had her late father's kind eyes and his quiet way of working without complaint. Grizzel, the elder, had her mother's sharp tongue and her own firmly held opinion that she was far too special for ordinary tasks. Their mother, it must be said, agreed entirely about Grizzel and not at all about Fanchon. She gave Grizzel the best chair, the biggest portion, and the warmest seat by the fire. She gave Fanchon the bucket.
Every morning, Fanchon put on her apron, picked up the heavy wooden bucket, and walked the long path through the forest to fetch water from the well. It was not a pleasant walk in winter when the mud was thick, and not an easy one in summer when the bucket, once filled, pulled at her arm all the way home. But Fanchon had a habit of noticing good things — the way light fell through the beeches, the sound of the woodpecker, a spider's web hung with dew — and the walk was never truly dull to her. She went in all weathers without being asked twice, which is rarer than it sounds.
One afternoon Fanchon arrived at the well to find an old woman sitting on the stone edge, struggling with a clay jug that was too heavy for her bent arms. The woman's clothes were ragged and her face was weathered and tired. "May I help you?" Fanchon said, and without waiting for an answer she set down her own bucket, filled the old woman's jug for her, and carried it to where she could manage it. "You are very kind, child," the old woman said, and her voice had something unusual in it — a quality, like light in water. "What is your name?" "Fanchon," the girl said, and smiled.
They sat together by the well for a little while. The old woman asked questions and Fanchon answered them honestly — about her home, her sister, her daily work — and she did not complain, even about the parts that were hard, because complaining about difficulties to a stranger who might have larger ones seemed unkind. The old woman listened with what felt like real interest. When Fanchon stood to leave, hoisting her full bucket, the old woman caught her hand. Her grip was surprisingly warm and strong. "I have a gift for you," she said, "for your courtesy. You will find it when you speak."
Fanchon thanked her, puzzled, and walked home. The cottage door swung open just as she arrived. Her mother looked up from her sewing. "You're late," she said. "I'm sorry," Fanchon began, "I stopped to help—" and as she spoke, something extraordinary happened. A white rose dropped from her lips onto the doorstep. Then a violet. Then a small, perfect diamond that rang against the stone like a bell. Then another rose. Her mother stared. Fanchon clapped a hand over her mouth, then slowly lowered it. A lily fell, then another diamond. Her mother's eyes went very wide indeed.
"Tell me everything," her mother ordered. So Fanchon did, and as she spoke the whole story, roses and diamonds and violets fell steadily around her feet until the floor of the cottage glittered. Her mother gathered the diamonds in her apron with shaking hands. By the time Fanchon finished, there was a considerable pile. Her mother sat back and thought rapidly. Then she called: "Grizzel! Come here immediately." Grizzel appeared from the best chair where she had been resting. Her eyes went from her mother's face to the flowers and diamonds on the floor. They became very round and very attentive.
"There is an old woman at the well in the forest," her mother told Grizzel, speaking quickly. "You must go there at once and be very polite to her. She gives gifts to girls who are kind." Grizzel had already untied her apron and was reaching for her hat. "How kind, exactly?" she asked. "Very," said her mother. Grizzel paused. "And I get diamonds?" "And flowers." Grizzel put on her hat, took up the best bucket, and walked out the door at a pace somewhat faster than her usual stroll. The forest path seemed much shorter than usual when there were diamonds at the end of it.
At the well, the old woman was still sitting on the stone edge. Grizzel looked her up and down — the ragged clothes, the bent back, the clay jug — and felt the particular impatience of someone who expected something and has found the thing much smaller than hoped. "Are you the one who gives gifts?" she demanded, without greeting. The old woman looked up mildly. "That depends," she said. Grizzel tossed her hair. "My sister came here this afternoon. I want what she received. Do you have water? I suppose I can carry it for you, since that seems to be required."
She filled the old woman's jug with the air of someone doing a very large favour. She set it down with a thump that sloshed water over the edge. "There," she said. "Now — my gift." The old woman looked at her for a long moment. Something in her grey eyes had gone very still and very clear, like water before it freezes. "You shall certainly have a gift," she said, "perfectly suited to you." Grizzel straightened her hat and walked home briskly, already planning where she would keep her diamonds. She would need a better box. Several boxes, probably.
She arrived home and pushed the door open. "Well!" she announced. "I've done it — I was perfectly polite, I carried the water, and I—" and she stopped. Her mother stared at her. On the floor where Grizzel stood, there was a toad. Then another. A small green snake uncoiled itself from the doormat. Another toad. Grizzel clapped her hand over her mouth. She opened it again. Two more toads and a snake appeared. The snakes slithered under the furniture. The toads hopped in several directions. Her mother screamed. Grizzel made a noise of pure outrage — and three toads and a snake appeared simultaneously.
The story of Fanchon's gift spread through the village and beyond. A prince who was travelling in the region heard the tale and came to see for himself. Fanchon, at her mother's insistence and her own considerable discomfort, spoke a few words for him in the parlour — and roses and diamonds fell onto the good tablecloth and rolled across the floor. The prince was not most struck by the diamonds. He was struck by the way she looked embarrassed on his behalf, and the way she said, afterwards, "I do hope it wasn't too startling." He asked if he might call again. She said yes, a violet fell, and he smiled.
Grizzel, unable to speak a single word without producing an assortment of toads and reptiles, found the village increasingly unwelcoming. She left — first for the next town, then further, and nobody in the story hears much about her after that. Fanchon married the prince, and the wedding had rather a lot of flowers, which suited everyone very well. She never forgot the afternoon at the well, and she never forgot what the old woman's eyes had looked like when they went clear and still. She had understood, she thought, what the fairy had really been testing — not how well you could perform kindness, but whether you had any to begin with.
