By thefts and exactions, by heavy ransoms from merchants too old and
tough to be eaten, in one way and another, the Ogre had become very
rich; and although those who knew could tell of huge cellars full of
gold and jewels, and yards and barns groaning with the weight of
stolen goods, the richer he grew the more anxious and covetous he
became. Moreover, day by day, he added to his stores; for though (like
most ogres) he was as stupid as he was strong, no one had ever been
found, by force or fraud, to get the better of him.

What he took from the people was not their heaviest grievance. Even to
be killed and eaten by him was not the chance they thought of most. A
man can die but once; and if he is a sailor, a shark may eat him,
which is not so much better than being devoured by an ogre. No, that
was not the worst. The worst was this--he would keep getting married.
And as he liked little wives, all the short women lived in fear and
dread. And as his wives always died very soon, he was constantly
courting fresh ones.

Some said he ate his wives; some said he tormented, and others, that
he only worked them to death. Everybody knew it was not a desirable
match, and yet there was not a father who dare refuse his daughter if
she were asked for. The Ogre only cared for two things in a woman--he
liked her to be little, and a good housewife.

Now it was when the Ogre had just lost his twenty-fourth wife (within
the memory of man) that these two qualities were eminently united in
the person of the smallest and most notable woman of the district, the
daughter of a certain poor farmer. He was so poor that he could not
afford properly to dower his daughter, who had in consequence remained