{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39167/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39167","id":"gutenberg_39167","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39167","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Novels","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Fairy tales"],"text":"Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Canada Team at\nhttp://www.pgdpcanada.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                               FAIRIES AFIELD\n\n                             BY MRS. MOLESWORTH\n\n\n    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY\n    GERTRUDE DEMAIN HAMMOND\n\n    MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\n    ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON\n\n    1911\n\n    [Illustration]\n\n    MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED\n\n    LONDON  BOMBAY  CALCUTTA\n    MELBOURNE\n\n    THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n\n    NEW YORK  BOSTON  CHICAGO\n    ATLANTA  SAN FRANCISCO\n\n    THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.\n\n    TORONTO\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                  I DEDICATE THIS BOOK\n\n             TO ONE WHO LOVES FAIRY STORIES\n\n             THE REVEREND JOHN CYRIL HOWELL\n\n    155 Sloane Street, S.W.\n    _May 8, 1911._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration: Pretty Ysenda.]\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                    PAGE\n\n    \"ASK THE ROBIN\"                   1\n\n    A MAGIC TABLE                    60\n\n    THE WEATHER MAIDEN              121\n\n    THE ENCHANTED TRUNKS            176\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n    TO FACE PAGE\n\n    PRETTY YSENDA (P. 66)                           _Frontispiece_\n\n    \"IT MAKES ME THINK OF ALL SORTS OF LOVELY\n    SUMMER THINGS\"                                             8\n\n    WITH A WONDERFUL NOTE OF EXCEEDING JOY, HE\n    SPREAD HIS WINGS AND FLEW ROUND THE\n    BOWER, RETURNING AGAIN TO PERCH ON THE\n    CHILD'S STILL OUTSTRETCHED HAND, AS IF IN\n    GRATITUDE                                                 52\n\n    \"YOUR MOTIVE WAS PURE KINDNESS--FREE FROM\n    ALL SELFISHNESS, THEREFORE YOU SUCCEEDED\"                119\n\n    \"SO YOU HAVE COME AT LAST, LITTLE MAIDEN\"                136\n\n    SHE CAUGHT SIGHT OF A TINY FIGURE PEERING AT\n    HER FROM BEHIND THE RUBBISH                              150\n\n    STOPPED AND KISSED IT GENTLY AND RESPECTFULLY            214\n\n    LO AND BEHOLD--COUSIN FELICITY HAD VANISHED              239\n\n\n\n\n\"Ask the Robin\"\n\n\nOnce upon a time--a fairly long ago time--there lived in a neat little\ncottage two young girls who were sisters. If you had gone to see them on\na bright warm summer's day, I daresay you would have envied them and\ntheir life and their lot. For they were pretty and healthy and they\nloved each other dearly, and the cottage was charming to look at, in its\ndress of clustering roses and honeysuckle and traveller's joy, and other\nsweet and beautiful climbing, flowering plants. Furthermore, it stood in\na little garden filled with treasures of different kinds, pansies, of\nwhich there was a great variety, and lilies and mignonette and all the\nflowers one loves to see in an old-fashioned garden of the kind. And the\nsisters kept it in perfect order, the beds were always raked, there was\nnever a weed to be seen, the tiny plots of grass were like velvet.\n\nIn spring too it was very pretty, when first the snowdrops and then the\ncrocuses and primroses and violets woke up after their long winter\nsleep, and in autumn also there was a show of beauties, dahlias and\nchrysanthemums and kitchen pokers and other pretty things of the season.\n\nAnd indeed, even in winter, the place had its charm, of evergreen shrubs\nand bright berries and--till the snow came and made an end of all but\nthe hardiest plants, the still remaining lovely variegated leaves of\nlate autumn.\n\nNo care or skill was wanting to keep the whole as pretty as could\npossibly be, for the sisters' father was a gardener, and from him they\nhad learnt both love of growing things and knowledge of all needed for\ntheir welfare. And not so very long before this story begins I doubt if\nAria or Linde--these were the girls' names--cared what time of year it\nwas, for all were happy days to them. Glowing summer, sparkling spring,\nrich mellow autumn, even winter, often cold and grey--all brought joy\nand gladness, till one sad night terrible sorrow fell upon them. Their\nfather was drowned on his way home from market, in crossing a swollen\nstream, whose rushing waters broke down the little wooden bridge, over\nwhich in the darkness he was driving his small pony-cart. And as the\npoor girls' mother had died years before, they were now truly orphans.\n\nThe neighbours--such as there were, for there were but few--were sorry\nfor them and kind, as far as they could be. But it was a lonely part of\nthe world. The gardens where the drowned man had been one of the\nlabourers belonged to a rich landowner who seldom visited his property,\nand all that the place produced was sent to the nearest town and there\nsold. Thus there was no one of importance to take much interest in Aria\nor Linde, except the steward of the castle, who advised them to look for\nsituations as servants, and when they wept and said they could not bear\nto be parted, he got angry and called them fools and left them alone.\n\nFor a short time they got on pretty well. They were still very\nyoung--Aria barely seventeen and Linde only fourteen, but they were\nactive and capable and ready-witted, and their father had managed to\nsave a little, though, alas, but a little.\n\nAria made it last as long as she possibly could. It was summer, and they\nneeded but small fires and cheaper clothing and even--so it seemed to\nthem--simpler food than in the cold weather. Then they were able to\nearn a fair amount by odd work in the hay-fields and so on, when work\nwas at its best. And once a week, at least, they trudged all the way to\nmarket laden with their loveliest flowers, tied up with great taste and\ncare, and sometimes, as the season advanced, baskets full of the wild\nfruit that they gathered in the forest hard by. Have I told you that\ntheir home was on the edge of a forest? No? Ah well, never mind, we\nshall hear more of the forest by and by.\n\nBut summer, and even autumn, only stay for their appointed time. As they\nstood at the cottage door one morning late in October, Aria's face grew\nvery grave. It was a chilly day, the sky overcast and steely, a sort of\nsighing in the air as if the spirits of the summer and the sunshine were\nbidding the world a reluctant farewell, frightened away by the\nfast-approaching winter.\n\nIt was Friday, the day before the market, to which so far they had never\nmissed wending their way, even if the weather were wet or stormy, as it\nmust be now and then at all times of the year.\n\n\"How dull and cold it is!\" said Linde with a little shiver. \"Aria, I\nwish we didn't need to go all the way to market to-morrow, if it's\ngoing to be like this.\"\n\nAria looked at her without speaking for a moment. Then she said very\nseriously:\n\n\"You are thoughtless, Linde, but then of course you are much younger\nthan I, poor child. You say you wish we need not go to the town\nto-morrow? My dear, I am only afraid that your wish will come true! I\ndon't see what we have to take to market--the fruit is all over and we\nhave but very few flowers to tie up.\"\n\nLinde's face fell. Then she brightened up a little.\n\n\"There are lots of lovely leaves,\" she said.\n\nAria glanced over the garden.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied. \"I think we may manage two or three good bunches for\nto-morrow, and possibly for another Saturday too. And--\" she went on,\n\"it has struck me that some of the townsfolk, who are always glad to buy\nour flowers, might care for our dried rose-leaves--we have quite a large\njar-full, you know.\"\n\nLinde clapped her hands.\n\n\"What a good idea!\" she cried. \"Oh I'm sure the leaves would sell. So\nfew of the ladies in the town have proper gardens of their own.\"\n\n\"Or time to look after them, luckily for us,\" said Aria, \"otherwise our\nflowers would not be in such request.\"\n\nFor though little Linde spoke of their customers as \"ladies,\" the good\nhousekeepers of the small but busy town were mostly of the working-class\nthemselves--that is to say, wives or mothers of the men employed in the\nchina manufactories on which the place depended, and in those days,\nlong, long before railway lines, there were no such things as flower\nshops. The only chance of getting fresh garden produce was the market.\n\n\"Luckily for us too,\" Aria went on, \"there are no great gardens near,\nexcept at the castle, and father often said it was hard work to keep the\ncountess supplied with flowers enough, even though she sent express\nmessengers for them twice a week.\"\n\n\"All the same,\" said Linde rather dolefully, \"I wish father hadn't been\na gardener. Flowers are so delicate and wither so soon. If we'd had a\nlittle dairy now--or even poultry, and could have sold butter and eggs,\nand chickens. They'd have gone on all the year round.\"\n\n\"Linde, dear, father never had money enough to buy cows or even\npoultry,\" said Aria with a sigh. \"And it would have been difficult to\nget much to the market, so far off as it is, without a cart and pony,\nand how could we have bought these?\"\n\nFor the pony which had perished with the poor man was the property of\nhis master, though he was sometimes allowed to carry shrubs and bulbs of\nhis own to market, with the castle vegetables, when he went to sell them\nat the town.\n\nLinde did not answer. Her spirits were very apt to go up and down all in\na minute, so Aria spoke again more cheerfully.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I'm glad I thought of the rose-leaves. They are really\nmost fragrant still. I lifted the lid yesterday for a moment. The powder\nthat father gave me to throw among them was wonderfully good. I wish we\nhad more of it.\"\n\n\"Is it quite done?\" asked Linde.\n\n\"Very nearly. It was given to mother, you know, when she was a bride by\nan old woman who was her godmother. She declared it had fairy power and\nwould never grow stale. And so it has proved. We may safely promise any\nwho buy the leaves that they will scent their linen even better than\nlavender, and more lastingly. Come along, Linde, and let's see how we\ncan best take a good parcel of them with us to-morrow,\" and Linde's\ninterest revived again, as she followed her sister indoors.\n\nThe dried leaves--what are often called \"pot pourri,\" though the simple\nsisters had never heard the name--were kept in a very large jar, of\nold-fashioned stoneware. It had a lid, and would nowadays be highly\nvalued as rare and antique. But of this its owners knew nothing. They\nonly loved it for their parents' sake, as it too had been a wedding gift\nfrom the godmother. And whence she had got it no one had ever known. She\nwas herself a rather mysterious person. Folks used to say--so Aria\nremembered having heard when she was a little girl, helping her mother\nto gather rose-leaves to fill the jar--that there was something of fairy\nnature about her.\n\n\"And however that may have been,\" said Aria, as she repeated this to\nLinde, \"certainly her gifts have proved lasting. The jar has been\nknocked over several times, you know, and never broken, and the powder\nis as fresh as a newly gathered rose.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Linde agreed, after a good long sniff at the jar's contents.\n\"It's delicious. It makes me think of all sorts of lovely summer\nthings.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"It makes me think of all sorts of lovely summer things.\"]\n\nThen they consulted as to how they could best carry the precious\nleaves to the market for sale.\n\n\"We needn't take them _all_,\" pleaded Linde. \"I do wish we needn't sell\nany. It seems a shame.\"\n\n\"Almost,\" her sister replied, \"but it can't be helped. If only I had had\nmore of the powder,\" she repeated, \"we might have collected and dried\nquantities of rose-leaves.\"\n\n\"Or if we knew how to make the powder,\" said Linde.\n\nBut that knowledge was not to be had.\n\nAria had reached down the jar, which stood on a high shelf in a corner,\nand the fragrance seemed to fill the room.\n\n\"Leave off sniffing it, Linde, dear,\" she said, for the child kept\nbending over it, \"and let us plan how to take the leaves to market. We\ncan't of course carry the jar, but it wouldn't do only to pack them in a\nsheet of paper. Ah, I have it,\" and she ran up the tiny ladder-like\nstaircase which led to their little bedroom above, returning with a\ngood-sized old-fashioned box or canister of tin, with a firm lid. \"The\nvery thing,\" she exclaimed joyously.\n\n\"It will be dreadfully clumsy and heavy to carry,\" objected Linde.\n\n\"Oh no, I can easily manage it, and a bunch or two of flowers as well,\nwithout being overladen,\" said Aria. \"And see here, Linde, I will take\nthis little cup,\" and she held up a small mug of lustre ware, \"I fancy\nit will hold about two ounces weight of the leaves. For that quantity\nsay we charge half a groat--and if we are lucky enough to sell twenty or\neven twelve cups full, that will get us through next week beautifully.\"\n\nThen she filled the little cup and weighed its contents. They were just\nover her idea. And Linde's spirits rose again as she helped her sister\nto cleanse the canister from every speck of dust or mould and then to\nfill it with the perfumed leaves.\n\nAll that day the cottage seemed pervaded by the fragrance. Accidentally\na few of the leaves and some grains of the powder fell among Linde's\ncurly hair, and when she brushed it out at night she was amused at its\nscent. It was not to be wondered at perhaps, that as her head lay on the\npillow she should have dreamt of the jar and its contents and the old\nmystery associated with them.\n\nThis was her dream.\n\nShe thought that she and her sister were standing at their usual corner\nof the market-place, their posies of flowers and large bunches of autumn\nleaves carefully arranged before them on the rough wooden table, the tin\ncanister in the middle and a little heap of the leaves displayed in\nfront of it. It seemed very early, there were scarcely any people about.\nSuddenly up came a small old woman, a stranger and what Linde would have\ncalled \"a foreigner,\" for her dress was either that of another country\nor of a date already quite passed out of fashion. She glanced at the\nflowers, and appeared to be passing on, when she caught sight of the\nlittle heap of dried leaves, on which she stopped short and Linde felt a\npair of bright eyes fixed on her. Then the stranger smiled and nodded,\nand, bending towards the child, murmured in her ear the mysterious\nwords: \"Three times, and then ask the robin.\"\n\n\"How--what do you mean?\" exclaimed Linde in her dream, trying to catch\nhold of the owner of the piercing eyes, as she turned away. But before\nthe little girl could touch her, she was gone, and in the start of\ndisappointment Linde awoke.\n\n\"What a queer dream,\" she said to herself, as she lay thinking of it. \"I\nwish Aria were awake, I do so want to tell it her.\"\n\nBut Aria was fast asleep, her face looking so peaceful in the moonlight\nthat Linde was too unselfish to wish to disturb her, for of late she\nknew well that the elder girl's waking hours were full of anxiety.\n\n\"I must wait till the morning,\" thought the child, and turning round she\nherself was soon in a dreamless slumber.\n\nThe next day Aria listened with great interest to Linde's story.\n\n\"It is queer,\" she agreed. \"It almost sounds like a message from\nmother's uncanny godmother.\"\n\n\"Don't call her 'uncanny,'\" Linde objected. \"It's rather a frightening\nsort of word, and she mightn't like it. Supposing,\" she went on,\nlowering her voice, \"_supposing_ she really was a fairy, or partly one,\nshe may be back in fairyland for all we know, and some day we might see\nher.\"\n\nBut Aria shook her head.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"she very likely had dealings with the fairies, but that\nisn't the same as being one herself.\"\n\n\"I'll keep a good look-out for her, nevertheless, at the market to-day,\"\nLinde replied.\n\nAnd so she did. But no one at all resembling the quaint figure in her\ndream was to be seen, and after a while Linde forgot about her, so busy\nwere the sisters that morning in selling their wares.\n\nThe first of their usual customers, a kindly, well-to-do, housewifely\nwoman, who had known their father and always came to them for flowers,\nwas at once attracted by the delicious perfume of the dried leaves.\n\n\"Dear, dear,\" she exclaimed, \"it's not often that late autumn flowers\nare so fragrant. Your posies are always fresh and sweet, but I've never\nknown their scent so beautiful,\" and she sniffed with satisfaction,\nlooking about to discover from which of the flowers it came.\n\n\"It's not the flowers,\" explained Aria to the good dame. \"It's something\nnew we have for sale to-day. I only hope that you and our other\ncustomers may take a fancy to it,\" and she went on to tell of the\npleasant qualities of the dried rose-leaves--how their scent, if they\nwere laid among linen, was both fresher and more delicate to begin with,\nand lasted much longer than that of the finest lavender. But she said\nnothing of the sort of mystery connected with the powder; some instinct\nprevented her doing so. Nor did she tell that but a little of it\nremained, or that their stock of rose-leaves would soon be exhausted.\n\n\"Who knows what may happen before that?\" she reflected, and the words of\nLinde's dream-visitor recurred to her, \"Three times, and then ask the\nrobin.\"\n\nDame Barbara was quite satisfied and greatly delighted.\n\n\"Here,\" she said, fumbling for her substantial purse, \"a groat for two\nounces of it, did you say? No, a half-groat only? My dear, you'll have\nto raise your prices if the perfume is so excellent! Well to begin with,\ngive me the four ounces straight away, and here's a half-groat over and\nabove what it all comes to--dried leaves and fresh ones and flowers, all\ntogether--just the tiny silver piece for luck, you know.\"\n\nAria and Linde smiled and thanked her. And the thanks were repeated,\nwhen, as she turned away, she called out, \"I'll be the first to tell my\ncronies of this. Dear, dear, I feel as if I were in a fairy garden\nmyself with the pleasure of the perfume. I had no idea that the robins'\nforest had such treasures of roses. For you live in the forest, do you\nnot, or close by?\"\n\n\"Yes, just at its edge,\" they replied, \"but,\" Linde went on eagerly,\n\"we never knew it was called after the robins. It is odd that we never\nheard it.\"\n\nDame Barbara nodded sagaciously.\n\n\"'Tis a very old name. Scarce a one but myself knows of it, nowadays,\"\nshe said. \"No wonder you children never heard it. There was an ancient\nstory--just a foolish tale--that the fairies haunted the forest, till\none day some cruel or stupid person killed a robin. Robins used to\nabound there, and they are their special favourites, you know, and since\nthen never a fairy or a robin has been seen there. But I must hurry off\nto finish my marketing.\"\n\nAria and Linde looked at each other.\n\n\"It must mean something,\" said Linde in a low and almost awe-struck\ntone. \"My dream, I mean, and the old woman saying, 'Ask the robin.'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" her sister agreed. \"It is odd too that we never heard the old\nname or the old story before. I wonder if father had? I have a sort of\nremembrance of his once saying something about our being too near the\nforest for robins to make their home with us, but I had a silly childish\nidea that he only meant that all robins disliked forests.\"\n\n\"I think I must have had the same notion,\" said Linde, \"for we have both\nof us now and then wished that robins would make their nests in our\ngarden, but we just thought they never would! We have hardly ever seen\none.\"\n\n\"Very seldom,\" said Aria. \"I have occasionally noticed a redbreast on\nthe hedge, seeming to look about him, but he was sure to fly away.\"\n\nBut though they felt extremely interested in what they had heard and\nvery curious to find out if, as Linde said, her dream did \"mean\nsomething,\" just then they had no time to talk about it any more, for\nDame Barbara was as good as her word. Every one of their usual customers\nfor flowers seemed to have met the old woman and been told of the\nwonderful dried leaves. And some strangers, too, new-comers or visitors\nto the little town, stopped as they passed by, with exclamations of\n\"What a delicious fragrance! Can it be from these flowers?\" and when it\nwas explained to them that the source of the perfume was the contents of\nthe tin canister, one and all immediately bought a cup-full, or two,\neven in some cases three or four. Long before their usual hour for going\nhome, all the leaves were sold, and some would-be purchasers who came\ntoo late were delighted to hear that next market-day there would be a\nfresh supply of the coveted leaves.\n\n\"Never has our purse been so well filled before,\" said Aria in great\ncontent, as she tied up the little purchases of butter and eggs and\nhoney and other luxuries which she had scarcely hoped to be able to\nafford. \"Linde, it really has been a wonderful success. If only we had\njars and jars full of the leaves!\"\n\n\"Don't despair,\" said Linde. \"Remember my dream. Who knows what may come\nof it?\" and very hopeful and happy, the sisters set off for their long\nwalk home.\n\nNothing out of the common happened to them during the next few days.\nThough they half laughed at themselves for doing so, they often kept\nlooking out in hopes of catching sight of a redbreast, but none was to\nbe seen, and though they strolled more than once farther than usual into\nthe forest, when their daily work was over, they there met with no\nadventures.\n\n\"I am afraid, Linde, dear,\" said Aria on the Friday evening, when they\nhad again filled the canister with the precious leaves to be ready for\nmarket next day, \"I am afraid that we must think no more about your\ndream, or that it meant anything. We have still leaves enough for one\nother day's sale after to-morrow, and we must just be thankful for the\nhelp it has been, giving us time to consider what we must do to get\nthrough the winter,\" and though she tried to speak cheerfully, the poor\ngirl could not keep back a little sigh, which Linde was quick to hear.\n\n\"Aria, sweetheart, Aria,\" the child exclaimed in a piteous voice, \"you\ndon't think, you can't mean that we may have to part? Oh I'd much, much\nrather die, if we might but die together. Promise me, promise me that\nyou'll never leave me.\"\n\n\"My darling,\" said Aria, bravely forcing back her tears, \"Heaven knows,\nit half kills me to think of such a possibility. So far, things have\ngone better with us than we could have dared to hope; let us therefore\ngo on praying and trusting that we may keep together.\"\n\nLinde cheered up again.\n\n\"Yes, yes, that is the best thing to do,\" she agreed. \"And do you know,\nAria, though I get frightened sometimes, deeper down I have a feeling\nthat we shall get on well, after all. It is ever since my dream that I\nseem to get this sort of comforting hope,\" she added, with a curious\nlight in her eyes.\n\nThe elder sister, to tell the truth, had less faith in dreams and\npresentiments than little Linde, but she was glad of anything to cheer\nthe child. So with a loving kiss they went to bed betimes, in\npreparation for their long walk to market the next day, and soon fell\nasleep.\n\nAria woke first on Saturday morning. It was still very early, the dawn\nbarely breaking. But there was light enough to see Linde's face, all\nrosy and smiling in her sleep. She quickly roused when she heard her\nsister moving about the room.\n\n\"Aria,\" she exclaimed, \"Aria, darling, it's come again. The dream, I\nmean.\"\n\nAria turned and looked at her. At first the elder sister was inclined to\nsay that she was not very surprised. A dream that has made much\nimpression on one is apt to return, especially in this case, remembering\ntheir conversation the previous evening. But the sight of Linde's happy\nand excited face checked her.\n\n\"I must not damp her hopefulness,\" she thought, \"and after all--who\nknows?\"--\"Was it the same as before?\" she asked, \"exactly the same old\nwoman and all?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Linde replied, \"just the same. We were in the market, and she\ncame by, and then stopped and seemed to be attracted by the rose-leaves'\nscent. Then I felt her eyes on me and heard her voice--low but\nclear--saying----,\" and here the little girl interrupted herself, \"Oh\nyes, there were just two words different, and that makes it seem more\nreal. She did not say 'three times,' but '_twice_ more and then ask the\nrobin.' I wonder,\" Linde continued, \"I wonder if possibly we shall see\nher herself. No--I don't think we shall. I feel that she can only come\nin dreams.\"\n\nThey were at their place in the market in good time as usual. Their\nposies of late flowers and autumn foliage had, alas, diminished, but\ntheir supply of the fragrant leaves was rather larger than the week\nbefore, for, influenced perhaps by the \"twice more\" of Linde's dream\nvisitor, Aria had divided the contents of the jar into two equal\nportions, each of which proved to be rather more than the first lot she\nhad carried off for sale. In fact the useful tin canister was this time\ncompletely filled.\n\nAnd the demand for their new wares was even greater than the last time.\nDame Barbara and her friends had spread the fame of the wonderful\nleaves. Aria could have sold what she had twice over, and more than one\nof her customers assured her that if she could keep up the supply during\nthe winter, orders would be forthcoming from more distant parts of the\ncountry.\n\n\"I mean to make pretty bags and fill them with your leaves, for\nChristmas presents to my friends,\" said one smiling young lady. \"So\ndon't forget that I shall want ever so much of them a little later on,\"\nand Aria thanked her and wisely refrained from saying that she feared\nher stock was all but exhausted.\n\n\"Don't be too sure of that,\" said Linde, when Aria sighed about it. \"My\nhopes have risen sky-high since the dream came again, though how we are\nto 'ask the robin,' seeing that none of his kind ever come near us, or\nhow he could help us if we did come across him, is more than I can in\nany way imagine! And after all, we have still enough leaves for next\nmarket-day, which will be the _third_ time.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Aria agreed, \"it is much the best to hope on and keep up our\nspirits. And for the present we have no reason to despond. My old purse\nis delightfully well filled to-day even though I could not make up my\nmind to raise the price of the leaves as Dame Barbara urged me to do. I\nfelt somehow as if it would not bring me good luck.\"\n\n\"I felt the same,\" said Linde.\n\nThey spent a cheerful evening, and the following day, Sunday, passed\npeacefully. When they returned from the ancient church in the\nneighbouring village whither since their infancy they had always gone\nwith their parents, Linde asked Aria to let her go for a stroll in the\nforest by herself, to which the elder sister, who was feeling a little\ntired, agreed.\n\n\"You are going to look for a robin, I know,\" she said with a smile, \"and\npossibly as the dreams have come to you and not to me, you may succeed\nwhere I could not. But don't go too far, dear child. I should be anxious\nif you were long away, for no doubt the forest _is_ rather uncanny,\nsomehow.\"\n\n\"I won't go far,\" said Linde. \"And I hardly hope to find out anything.\nBut I shall just look well about me. You see the real time has not yet\ncome. We are not to 'ask the robin' till after three market-days.\"\n\nWhen she returned home an hour or two later, she seemed thoughtful,\nthough not exactly depressed.\n\n\"Well,\" asked her sister, \"had you any adventures?\"\n\nLinde shook her head, yet she smiled a little.\n\n\"Only a very tiny thing happened to me,\" she said, \"hardly worth\nnoticing. I strolled some way along the path that leads straight to the\nheart of the forest--the main path, you know, Aria--and I was just\nthinking of turning home, when, a short way down a much smaller path,\nscarcely one at all, I caught sight of something bright lying on the\nground. At first I thought it was a scarlet berry or two, or some of the\nred leaves one often sees, but when I stooped to pick it up, it was\nthis,\" and she held out a small feather.\n\nAria took it--it was of a peculiar shade, almost more orange than red.\n\n\"I know what you are thinking,\" said the elder sister,--\"that it is a\nrobin's feather--from his red breast, and it certainly looks very like\nit, but----\"\n\n\"Wait, Aria, till you hear the rest,\" interrupted Linde, and she opened\nher other hand, in which lay two more of the fairy-like feathers,\nexactly similar to the first. \"The wonderful part of it was that though\nthey are _so_ tiny,\" and she glanced at the treasures tenderly, \"and\nthough it was not a bright day, there was no sunshine, they glowed and\ngleamed as if they were gems. I walked on a little way, you see, after I\nhad picked up the one, and there, some yards ahead, lay the second, and\nthe same with the third. But it was the last. I feel sure it was the\nlast, though I went on some distance. And somehow, three seem the right\nnumber for a fairy message. It matches the three times in my dreams.\"\n\n\"Then you do think they are a message?\" asked Aria.\n\n\"Of course I do. I marked the path well by breaking off twigs and making\na little heap of pebbles. Indeed it was necessary, for I had never\nnoticed before that there was a path there at all,\" and when she went on\nto describe its position Aria agreed with her that it seemed quite a new\ndiscovery.\n\nFor the rest of the week Linde appeared satisfied to rest quietly on her\noars. She made no more expeditions to the forest, and indeed spoke less\nthan she had done of her dreams and their interpretation, though that\nshe was thinking much about them her sister felt sure, from the look in\nher pretty eyes and the way she sometimes smiled to herself for no\napparent reason.\n\nSo the days passed till again it was Friday evening and the sisters went\nearly to bed. Everything was ready for their little stall at the market,\nbut Aria sighed as she remarked that their autumn posies now made but a\npoor show.\n\n\"But there are the rose-leaves,\" said Linde.\n\n\"Yes,\" her sister replied, \"but the last of them, alas! See, Linde, the\njar is quite emptied!\"\n\n\"Do not be so downcast, darling,\" said Linde as they kissed each other\nfor good-night. \"Why, we have seemed to change places of late! It used\nto be you always cheering me--now it is I to cheer you.\"\n\nAria smiled. She felt sure that it was the hope of the dream being\nrepeated for the magic third time that was brightening her sister. But\nshe said nothing that night. Only the next morning when she woke very\nearly, just as the first faint streaks of coming dawn were beginning to\nappear, she listened anxiously, wondering if Linde was still asleep, and\nfelt glad when a tiny rustle, followed by a whisper, showed that the\nlittle girl was also awake.\n\n\"Aria,\" she said, \"Aria.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, what is it?\"\n\n\"It's come again, the third time,\" she exclaimed joyously. \"My dream!\nQuite the same as before, only that the old woman just smiled at me, and\nsaid, 'Once more, then ask the robin.' Aria, darling, it _must_ mean\nsomething.\"\n\nAnd Aria herself was impressed.\n\n\"But where are we--or you--to find the robin?\" she questioned.\n\n\"You're forgetting about the feathers, and the mysterious path,\" replied\nLinde.\n\nShe had carefully wrapped up the tiny treasures and hidden them in the\nfront of her frock. The knowledge that she had them safely there seemed\nto give her courage and hope. That Saturday's sale was again a great\nsuccess, and on the following day, as on the Sunday before, when they\nreturned from church and their simple mid-day dinner was over, Linde\ntold her sister that she was going to the forest. This time she scarcely\nasked Aria's leave, and though the elder girl was a little anxious, she\nfelt that it would have been useless to attempt to stop her.\n\n\"Very well, darling,\" she said. \"But don't go very far or stay very\nlong. Promise me.\"\n\nLinde considered.\n\n\"I think I can promise,\" she said, \"to be back by sundown. But, Aria, I\nbelieve I may have to go again much farther, or to do--I know not\nwhat--but feelings are coming to me,\" and she unconsciously touched the\nplace where the redbreast feathers were nestling. \"You won't forbid it,\nsister, will you?\"\n\nAria's face grew very grave.\n\n\"Whatever has to be done, and wherever,\" she said, \"why cannot we go\ntogether? I am afraid of the forest. Even father believed that there\nwas some spell or enchantment over it. You remember he never allowed us\nto go into it beyond a certain distance.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Linde dreamily, \"I remember. But maybe,\" and her face\nlighted up with a bright smile, \"maybe, Aria, the spell, or whatever it\nis, is going to be broken,\" and though the elder sister trembled a\nlittle at the words, she, too, felt a curious thrill of pleasant\nexcitement.\n\nSo the two kissed each other fondly and Linde set off. She was well\nwrapped up in a warm cloak, for the autumn days were fast growing\nchilly, especially of course in the forest, where the short amount of\nmid-day sunshine scarcely penetrated, so closely growing were the trees.\nThe cloak had originally been their mother's, then Aria's, and now the\nelder girl had refreshed and rebound it for her sister. It was of good,\nthick stuff and red in colour, and as Linde turned for a moment to wave\nanother good-bye at the entrance to the wood, it struck Aria that the\nchild looked rather like a human robin redbreast herself. She smiled at\nthe idea; somehow it cheered her. \"May all good angels and the saints\nguard her,\" she murmured as she re-entered the cottage.\n\nLinde walked on steadily. Not very fast, for she was keenly on the\nlook-out for any signs or tokens to direct her, and most anxious not to\nmiss the opening to what in her own mind she called \"the feather path.\"\n\nAnd to her satisfaction she found it without any difficulty. It was\nstill of course broad daylight, that is to say as light as was usual\namong the trees, and as she made her way along she kept her eyes on the\nground in hopes of seeing some more tiny specks of the unmistakable\norange-red.\n\nBut in vain. There were no more feathers waiting for her.\n\nFeeling rather discouraged, Linde stopped short, and looked around her.\n\n\"I must have quite passed the place where I picked up the third\nfeather,\" she said to herself. \"I did not come as far as this the last\ntime. Must I go home--what shall I do?\"\n\nShe drew her cloak a little closer, and as she did so, her fingers\ntouched the spot where nestled her treasures. Immediately her hopes\nrevived.\n\n\"Go on, go on,\" something above her seemed to say. She glanced upwards,\nalmost fancying that a voice had spoken to her, but nothing was to be\nseen--except--yes, on the branch of a fir-tree near at hand, some yards\noverhead, a bird was perching, and not only a bird, to her immense\ndelight she saw that it was a robin!\n\nHad it _spoken_? She gazed at it. It chirped encouragingly and spreading\nits wings flew down, and then flew onwards in front of her.\n\n\"Stay, robin, stay, and tell me what to do,\" cried the child. But it\nonly turned its little head towards her for half a second, and then\ncontinued its flight. Linde by this time, however, had lost all\nhesitation. On she ran, as fast as she could go, though now and then, as\nif in consideration for her, her small winged friend stopped for a\nmoment or two, and Linde grew less breathless. Then it looked back at\nher again, and in this way they got over a good deal of ground, till at\nlast--why, she could not have told--Linde stopped. And looking up, she\nsaw that her guide had disappeared.\n\nShe gazed round her. It was a strange spot. She had never been here\nbefore. Of that she felt certain, for she could not have forgotten it.\n\nShe was standing by the edge of a small clearing among the trees. It was\nin the shape of a circle, and in front of the firs, whose stems are of\ncourse as a rule bare, were planted short thick bushes as if for still\ngreater enclosing of the spot. So thickly indeed were these placed, that\nturning round to look behind her, Linde wondered how she had come\nthrough them, for no opening was to be seen. It was like standing in a\nroom of which the doorway is in some way or other completely concealed.\nHer heart began to beat faster, for even though she had scarcely moved\nshe felt as if she could never find her way out again.\n\nSuddenly a clear chirping made her look up, and to her amazement she\nsaw, in the very centre of the circular clearing, an object which she\nwas almost certain had not been there a moment before. And it was not\nonly her eyes which told her this, for her nostrils at once inhaled a\ndelicious perfume which she could not, for an instant, have been\nunconscious of. It was that of the precious leaves!\n\nAnd the object which she was gazing at was an indescribably beautiful\nrose-bush in full bloom, on the topmost branch of which sat her friend\nthe robin!\n\nHe nodded encouragingly--and now his chirps took shape. They grew into\nwords, but whether other ears than little Linde's would have heard this\nI cannot say. Enough that _she_ understood.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, as if in answer to her unexpressed surprise, \"yes, I\nwent down to fetch it up,\" and she knew that he was speaking of the\nrose-bush, \"for you to see it for yourself, my child.\"\n\nLinde gazed at him for a moment or two without speaking. Was she\ndreaming? she asked herself. But the familiar fragrance reassured her.\n\n\"Is it--?\" she began, \"are these the roses that our fairy powder came\nfrom?\"\n\nAgain the robin bent his little head.\n\n\"Even so,\" he replied. \"Fairy roses, that never lose their perfume. And\nyou would gladly fill the old jar again, would you not?\"\n\nLinde clasped her hands.\n\n\"Oh yes, yes!\" she exclaimed. \"The leaves mean everything to us. Not\nonly food and clothing, but a home--a home for us two together, instead\nof terrible separation. Oh Robin, darling, may I gather the flowers and\ndry the leaves, ready for the market? I'd come any day--or every day, to\nfetch them, and oh how grateful we should be,\" and the tears rushed to\nher eyes in her eagerness.\n\nBut the redbreast's tone grew grave, and Linde began to tremble with\nfear that he would say it could not be. But when he spoke again his\nwords surprised her.\n\n\"Do you know the story of the forest?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes--some part of it, at least. We know that--that--\" for she felt his\nbright eyes fixed upon her, and it made her hesitate, \"something very\nsad happened, and since then, no robins ever come here,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Sad--yes indeed,\" he repeated, \"and worse than sad. Wicked, cruel! A\nmonster in the shape of a boy shot one of our favoured tribe, deservedly\nfavoured, for, as a Christian child you know since when, we have been\nhonoured for our faithful service?\"\n\nLinde bowed her head reverently.\n\n\"I know,\" she whispered. \"It was very wicked of the boy. But it was a\nlong time ago,\" she went on. \"Can't you forgive it, and come back to the\nforest again?\"\n\n\"'Tis almost fifty years ago,\" the robin said. \"And for fifty years the\nplace has been under the ban. Our queen--call her fairy queen, or\nguardian angel as best pleases you--pronounced it. But around the tomb\nof the innocent victim,\" and he pointed downwards, \"she planted the\nrose-trees, of whose flowers by special favour the old godmother, of\nwhom you have heard, was allowed to gather a few. For she it was who\nfound our poor brother--here on this very spot--and summoned us to his\nside. Our ancestor, I should call him, for it was long ago, and our bird\nlives are very short--so surely they should not be cut still shorter?\"\n\n\"Surely not,\" said Linde. \"Then are those the leaves we had in our jar?\nI thought it was a powder--a fairy powder that the godmother\nbequeathed?\"\n\n\"So it was. She dried and ground the precious leaves, and with the\npowder perfumed the petals of her own garden roses, every year, so long\nas she lived. But she never re-visited the spot. It has been closed ever\nsince the day when, the arrow still transfixing his tender body, the\nrobin was buried, though not dead.\"\n\n\"Not dead,\" cried Linde. \"What can you mean?\"\n\n\"That was the decree,\" he replied. \"For fifty years he was to lie here,\ntill the forest could be purified from the pollution of cruelty.\"\n\n\"And how can that be done?\" Linde asked eagerly.\n\n\"By the hands of a maiden--a child-maiden, who never, _never_ has been\nguilty of cruelty to any living thing. Linde, are you that maiden?\"\n\nThe little girl was silent. Then she looked up, and her blue eyes did\nnot falter beneath the piercing gaze of the bird.\n\n\"I think, yes, I think,\" she said, \"no, I _know_ that I have never\nwished or meant to cause suffering. If ever it has come through me, it\nhas not been by any intention of mine.\"\n\n\"You speak the truth. We have watched and tested you, though you knew it\nnot,\" was the reply. \"Now something more is asked of you. Courage!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid, I'm dreadfully afraid I'm not very brave,\" said poor Linde,\nall sorts of alarming ideas rushing through her brain as to what might\nbe asked of her. Were they going to shoot _her_, possibly? Or to shut\nher up in the tomb with the dead, or not dead robin?\n\n\"Do not look so terrified,\" said the robin. \"More shall not be asked of\nyou than you can do. We are not a revengeful race, as you well know. We\nhave always been faithful and loving friends to human beings. You know\nthe story of----\"\n\n\"Of the Babes in the Wood,\" interrupted Linde. \"Of course I do. It was\npartly that, that made me think of you, about _leaves_, you know,\" and\nher face brightened. \"I will try to be brave,\" she added.\n\n\"That is right,\" said the bird. \"Some expiation _must_ be made for that\nboy's evil deed, and, as I have already told you, it was decreed that\nthe one to offer it must be a child entirely innocent of cruelty or\nunkindness. For this, _you_, little Linde, have been chosen. Three\nnights hence the fifty years come to an end--the moment for the spell to\nbe broken will arrive. Before midnight, you must be here, standing on\nthis very spot, where you now see me.\"\n\nLinde started. Had she shut her eyes for an instant?--what had happened\nto them? For, to her amazement, the rose-bush was no longer there! The\nrobin stood on the grass, in the centre of the cleared circle. Yet she\nhad not seen the disappearance, nor heard the faintest rustle!\n\n\"Oh dear,\" she thought, \"magic doings are very queer. There _was_ a\nrose-bush there, I am quite certain,\" but she said nothing. Some\ninstinct told her it was best to take things calmly, and to listen\nattentively to the robin's instructions. \"Where you now see me,\" he went\non, \"till you hear the clock strike twelve.\"\n\n\"The clock,\" Linde repeated. \"There's no clock here in the middle of the\nwood.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said the robin. \"Would you like to know the time at the\npresent moment?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Linde replied. \"I suppose it's nearly four o'clock.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" whispered the bird, and as she obeyed, there fell on her ears\nthe prettiest bell-like chimes she had ever heard. \"One, two, three--\"\non to twenty, then a pause and in deeper tones, \"one, two, three, four.\"\n\n\"Twenty minutes to four,\" said her friend. \"If it had been _past_ four,\nthe four would have struck first. All _our_ clocks are what your clumsy\nhuman watchmakers call 'repeaters,' you see.\"\n\n\"And what do you do to make them tell you the time?\" asked the little\ngirl eagerly.\n\n\"You just say 'What o'clock is it?' That is of course if you are at one\nof the entrances to fairyland. You can generally find one if you look\nabout. They are always in the centre of a ring.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied Linde, \"that's a good thing to know. I often see fairy\nrings, but I had no idea they had a door in the middle. Then tell me\nmore, please. I must wait till I hear the fairy clock strike twelve,\nand then--will the door open? And--what do you want me to do? And--if I\ncan do it, will you let me gather some roses?\"\n\n\"Not so fast, not so fast,\" said the robin. \"Let me see--what was I\nsaying? You stand here--the clock strikes, at the twelfth stroke you tap\nthe ground with the three feathers--you have them safe?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Linde, feeling for them as she spoke.\n\n\"The door will then open and you will descend. That is all you require\nto know at present. Three nights hence, three nights hence.\"\n\n\"But,\" began the little girl, \"I must know something more. How am I to\nfind my way here in the middle of the night when it is all dark? It\nwasn't easy to distinguish the path even by daylight, and now, even now,\nI don't know how to get through these thick bushes on to it. I can't see\nany opening in them.\"\n\nInstead of replying the robin suddenly spread his wings and alighted on\na bush close beside her, and at once Linde perceived that there was a\nnarrow sort of passage through the hedge. She turned towards it.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, adding timidly, \"May Aria come with me? Together\nwe might find our way better perhaps. We might bring a little lantern.\"\n\n\"It will not be needed, and you must come alone. You may tell Aria all I\nhave told you; and if she is wise she will encourage you. I make no\npromises. It is not for me to do so. But this you may depend upon--never\nwill you have cause to regret obedience to this summons,\" and as he\nspoke, he spread his wings again and flew upwards. As he passed her,\nthere came a breath of the delicious perfume, and Linde felt that it\nmeant a promise after all, which raised her spirits, as pushing her way\nthrough the hedge she found herself on the path outside and started on\nher way home.\n\n\"Aria will be getting anxious,\" she thought. \"I must hurry. I do believe\nit is all going to come right, but--oh dear, I do feel frightened at the\nidea of finding my way here alone through these gloomy woods in the very\nmiddle of the night. Why wouldn't the robin let Aria come too? I suppose\nit _had_ to be a rather dreadful thing to do, to make up for that cruel\nboy's wickedness. Oh dear, oh dear!\"\n\nBut as she ran on as fast as her feet would take her, some things grew\nclearer. She must make the best of it to her sister. She must conceal\nher terrors as much as possible.\n\n\"For supposing,\" she reflected, \"that dear Aria really _wouldn't_ let me\ngo and that it all came to nothing--the dreams and the feathers and this\nwonderful talking robin, how could I ever get over it? We should have to\nbe parted pretty certainly, and would not that be a thousand times more\nterrible than having to face the dark forest for once? For deep down in\nmy heart I feel certain that I shall be taken care of. I am proud to be\nchosen to break the spell and to make the forest again a happy place--a\nhome for the dear robins, and favoured by the fairies as it used to be\nall those years ago--yes, I am proud to be the chosen one. And I know it\nwill lead to our getting the precious leaves to sell, as many as we\nwant, and _that_ means everything to us, home and comfort and the being\ntogether. Yes, I _will_ be brave.\"\n\nSo when, at some little distance from the boundary of the forest, she\ncaught sight in the gloaming of her sister's figure anxiously looking\nout for her, she ran towards her with cheerful eagerness, calling out as\nloudly as she could, \"It's all right, darling. Good news--good news.\"\n\nNevertheless, when Aria had heard the whole strange story, her face grew\nvery grave.\n\n\"Linde, my sweetest,\" she said, \"I _cannot_ let you do it. Alone in the\nmiddle of the night, and winter close at hand! Wolves have been known to\nfind their way into the forest, and not only that, we ourselves have\nevery reason to believe there is some unhappy enchantment over the\nplace----\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Linde agreed. \"That is exactly why I have been chosen--to break\nthe spell.\"\n\n\"But,\" persisted poor Aria, \"how do we know that the robin may not be\ndeceiving us? Possibly he is a witch or wizard in disguise! Possibly a\nfairy, not wishing you harm, but hoping to steal you away. Fairies\nalways try to lure human children to live with them. Folks say it\nprolongs their own spell of life if they succeed.\"\n\nLinde considered.\n\n\"No,\" she said at last. \"The fairies who love these woods are good and\ntrue, I feel certain. I daresay there are different kinds of fairies,\njust as there are of people. But you can feel that these ones are kind\nand loving by their care for the robins. Then, remember my dreams,\nsister. Our mother's godmother would not wish harm to come to us, and\nso far, all her messages to us have only brought us great good, and\ngreater is in store for us, I am firmly convinced. Be quite happy about\nit, darling. You know I am naturally rather cowardly, much less\ncourageous than you, yet see how cheerful I feel about it. I have no\nmisgivings.\"\n\nAnd this was true. For the time, at least, all the little girl's fears\nhad flown away. So Aria said no more, though from time to time during\nthe next few days when she glanced at her sister she could not repress a\nsigh.\n\n\"Supposing,\" she thought to herself, \"_supposing_ I never see her again!\nThey might steal her away and let her come back twenty or even fifty\nyears hence without her knowing that more than a few hours had passed.\nShe would find me an old broken-down woman, if she found me at all,\nwhich I doubt, for I could not live without her.\"\n\nAs these gloomy ideas floated through her mind she was standing in the\nporch of the cottage, gazing at the forest. Suddenly, a soft chirping\nreached her ears, and looking up, she caught sight of a redbreast\nperching on the little garden gate. He seemed to look at her, then\nspread his wings and flew away, passing near her overhead. And at that\nmoment there came to the elder girl the same breath of the familiar\ndelicious perfume which had cheered Linde when she parted with the\nrobin, and with the same effect. From that moment Aria's misgivings left\nher, and to a great extent even her anxiety.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said to herself, \"she must go. It is meant. It would be\nuseless for me to interfere.\"\n\nThis happened on the very morning of the fated day.\n\nThe weather was already almost wintry.\n\n\"Linde,\" said her sister that evening, \"I won't ask you to undress and\ngo to bed, but I will keep up a good fire here in the kitchen, so that\nyou shall at least start warm. And you shall have a cup of good hot soup\nlast thing.\"\n\n\"Very well and thank you, dear,\" Linde replied. \"I will sit here in\nfather's comfortable old chair till the time comes for me to go. And I\nwill promise to drink all the soup and to put on all my wraps, if you,\nAria, will go to bed as usual and try to sleep till I come back again.\nThe only thing that would make me lose courage would be to leave you\nstanding at the door looking after me. I may sleep myself. I daresay I\nshall, if I know you are in bed. For I am certain I shall wake in good\ntime. As to that I have no fear.\"\n\nRather reluctantly, Aria consented to do as Linde wished, on condition\nthat the little girl gave her promise to come to her at once on her\nreturn, and to arouse her if by chance she were sleeping.\n\nLinde sat by the fire and listened to the ticking of the old clock, and\nthe occasional fall of a cinder, till her eyes grew drowsy and she\ndozed. Though not conscious of being really asleep, she felt as if but a\nfew minutes had passed, when the clock striking--more loudly than usual,\nit seemed to her--made her start.\n\n\"One, two, three,\" she counted, on to eleven.\n\n\"Yes, actually eleven,\" she said to herself. \"I have had a nice long\nsleep and I feel quite fresh, and it is time to be off.\"\n\nShe drank the soup, and wrapped herself up; and after laying a large log\non the fire, there to smoulder till she came back, she softly opened the\ndoor and stepped out, closing it again, though happily, in that peaceful\nand friendly part of the world, there was no need for bars or bolts.\n\nA little exclamation of surprise escaped her as she glanced about her.\nIt was full moon--the garden and the open space between it and the\nbeginning of the forest were flooded with light. Somehow she had not\nexpected this. In fact, relying upon the mysterious guidance and help\nwhich she felt sure would be given to her, she had not troubled herself\nbeforehand about how it was all to be managed, and the sisters went so\nearly to bed that they were often asleep before moonrise, if it were\nlate.\n\nLinde smiled to herself with pleasure and ran gaily through the garden\nand along the field-path. And for some little way inside the forest her\nroute was quite clear. But after a while it grew darker. The trees\nbecame more dense, and denser still she knew they would be the farther\nshe advanced. So she walked more slowly, looking well about her, and now\nand then pressing the three precious feathers in the front of her\nbodice.\n\n\"The great thing is not to miss the little path,\" she kept repeating,\nand after she had walked what seemed a considerable way, she began to\nfear she had done so.\n\nThen for the first time her courage threatened to fail her, and her\nheart took to beating much faster than was pleasant. She stood still.\nStrange uncanny sounds seemed in the air. Wailings far off among the\ntrees; faint groans and stealthy rustlings as if some weird creatures\nwere trying to get near her, a sudden sharp screech--it was only an owl,\nbut that the child did not know!--and then the very curious, very thin\nand minute squeal of a bat, so seldom audible to human ears.\n\n\"Oh dear,\" whispered Linde. \"Robin, have you tricked me? I don't know\nwhere I am, and though it is so lonely, I seem to feel invisible\ncreatures all about me. Oh, robin, you didn't tell me it would be so\ndifficult to find the way.\"\n\nThen something touched her foot; she gave a little scream, till looking\ndown she perceived a point of light just in front of her, and heard a\nwell-known voice.\n\n\"Foolish child,\" it said. \"You might trust me. This is the entrance to\nthe path. You have only to follow me.\"\n\n\"Are you carrying a lamp--a fairy lamp?\" asked Linde in a tone of great\nrelief. \"Why--I could fancy it was a glow-worm, only it is far too late\nin the year.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" said her guide. \"It is a glow-worm. We take care of\nthem--they sleep down below all the winter. But I woke up this fellow\non purpose. He is quite comfortable on my back. Now we must make haste.\nFollow me steadily till we come to the magic circle. Then you must act\nfor yourself--you know what to do.\"\n\nHe flew forward--near enough to the ground for Linde to keep the tiny\nlight well in view. And to her surprise she found she could make her way\nquite easily without stumbling or hesitation, and now and then a faint\nwhiff of scent reached her, as if to increase her confidence, though\nwhether it was wafted back from the redbreast's wings or upwards from\nthe little bunch of feathers, she could not have told.\n\nAnd at last--for, after all, making your way in the dark is very\nmonotonous work--the light stopped just in front of her, and she\nrealised that she was standing before the thickly growing bushes which\nhedged the clearing. And before she had time to wonder how to push her\nway through, the shrubs seemed to divide, as if held back by invisible\nhands, and through the opening thus made, Linde caught sight of the\nmagic circle gleaming like silver in the moonlight.\n\nHer guide had vanished, but now without hesitation she ran forward,\ntill she reached the central spot, where the rose-bush had risen to\nview, and whence she had been told she would find her way to the unknown\nregions below.\n\nShe stood still for a moment or two, somewhat dazzled by the sudden\nradiance, soft and lovely though it was. Then she stooped and examined\nthe ground, but the smooth, even turf showed not the least sign of an\nopening of any kind, such as she had half expected to see. As she stood\nup again her fingers touched the front of her dress and she remembered\nthe feathers.\n\n\"I am to tap with them,\" she reminded herself. \"But not till the fairy\nclock strikes twelve. Shall I ask what time it is now? No, I think it is\nbetter to wait quietly. I am sure I am not too late, but I think it must\nbe nearly midnight.\"\n\nShe felt curiously calm, and very wide-awake. There was not the very\nslightest sound to be heard--a complete contrast to the surrounding\nforest--not a rustle, not a murmur, never had Linde before realised what\nutter silence could be. She almost felt as if she herself should not\nmove a finger, scarcely even breathe. And when in a little she became\nconscious that her heart was again beating much faster than its wont,\nshe felt as if she must press it tightly to make it be quiet. And the\ngesture once more recalled the feathers. She drew them out.\n\n\"Best have them ready,\" she thought.\n\nThen she stood motionless.\n\nAnd suddenly, coming upwards to her, and yet sounding in the silent air\nas if all around her, came the fairy chimes--one, two, three, four, for\nthe completed hour, and then the sweet musical deeper note, twelve times\nrepeated.\n\nLinde was all alert.\n\nShe stooped at once and tapped three times with the three tiny feathers.\n\nAnd then what exactly happened she could not have told. She felt herself\nlifted a little way and made somehow or other to sit down on what seemed\na soft cushion. It was really a thick, round sod of turf, and as soon as\nshe was seated on it, it began to descend--down, down, making her at\nfirst feel rather giddy, though it moved slowly. She shut her eyes, and\nthe giddiness left her. Then she opened them, but all seemed darkness\nfor some seconds, till a faint light began to creep up, growing brighter\nas her strange journey continued, and at last steadying into a pleasant\nglow, not glaring or bewildering, but clear and bright, so as to show\nall surrounding objects distinctly.\n\nLinde sprang to her feet in delight. She was in the sweetest place she\nhad ever dreamed of. Sweet in every sense, for it was a small garden of\nthe beautiful rose-bushes, like the one the robin had shown her. And the\nscent was the exquisite one so familiar to her.\n\nShe was standing at the entrance to a sort of bower, or niche, in the\nmidst of the fragrant bushes, and glancing into it she saw that there\nwas a little hillock in its centre, and on this hillock were perched\nwhat at first seemed to her hundreds of redbreasts. In reality, I think\nthere were about fifty--all motionless, till from their midst flew out\none, whom by some instinct Linde recognised as her old friend.\n\n\"Birds,\" he said, for, to the fairy-touched ears of the child, chirps\nwere words, \"birds! She has come. And the time has come. Friends, bid\nher welcome.\"\n\nAnd a lovely welcome it was which poured from the many little throats.\n\n\"Thank you, dear robins,\" said Linde, feeling sure that she was expected\nto say something, \"thank you, dear birds. You know I love you, and I do\nhope you will soon come to live in the forest again. But now please\ntell me what it is you want me to do.\"\n\nThere was a sudden loud flutter of wings. All the robins at the same\nmoment flew upwards from the hillock and perched themselves in clusters\namong the rose-trees which formed the bower. Only one remained on the\nhillock. Linde knew him for her guide. Beside him lay a small bright\nobject. It was a finely made and polished spade.\n\nHe touched it with one of his claws.\n\n\"Take this, Linde,\" he said solemnly, \"and dig. But first, stroke it\nwith the three feathers.\"\n\n\"Where am I to dig?\" asked the little girl, as she obeyed him.\n\n\"Here of course,\" was the reply, \"here. It is the tomb of our ancestor,\nwhere for fifty years he has lain entranced.\"\n\nLinde lifted the spade. It was beautifully light.\n\n\"What a dear little tool it is!\" she thought to herself. \"I wish they\nwould let me keep it. It would be lovely for careful digging round the\ndelicate tiny roots that are so easily damaged.\"\n\nBut these reflections she kept to herself, for she felt the fifty pairs\nof bright eyes upon her. Just at present it was a question of doing what\nshe was told.\n\nSo she stroked the spade with her tiny feather posy, and then stepped\nforward close to the green mound. In her heart she felt doubtful as to\nwhether the toy spade would be strong enough to cut through the turf.\nBut as the robin flew up to a neighbouring branch, thus leaving the\ncoast quite clear for her operations, there was nothing for it but to\ntry. And to her satisfaction the blade glided through the sods almost\nwithout any effort of hers. In fact it seemed to direct her movements,\nso that in a very short time a neat round hole was made in the little\nhillock, revealing a sort of nest of the well-known dried rose-leaves,\nin the midst of which lay the tiny body of a--to all appearance\ndead--robin redbreast.\n\n\"Lift him,\" whispered her friend, evidently in the greatest excitement.\n\nLinde did so, carefully and almost reverently. He was a most beautiful\nbird, a king of his kind. His feathers were smooth, his breast rich in\ncolouring, his eyes closed. There was nothing death-like or painful\nabout him, except--ah yes--Linde could not repress a little shiver at\nthe sight--a small dart or arrow transfixed the dainty body, pinning one\nwing to his side, where a drop of blood told its cruel tale.\n\n\"Draw it out,\" came the next command.\n\n\"I feel as if it would hurt him,\" murmured Linde tremulously. But there\ncame a sort of trill of entreaty from the fifty watchers, and she felt\nthat she must obey. So mastering her own misgiving, she took firm hold\nof the head of the dart, and deftly drew it out, thinking as she did so,\n\"It will hurt him less if I do it quickly.\"\n\nIt took some little strength, but it did not break, and to her surprise\nthe hole it should have left, disfiguring the pretty creature, closed at\nonce. Then the bird gave a sudden shiver, a thrill of returning life\npassed through him--Linde herself was conscious of it in her\nfingers--his eyes unclosed; he looked up at her, then, with a wonderful\nnote of exceeding joy, he spread his wings and flew round the bower,\nreturning again to perch on the child's still outstretched hand, as if\nin gratitude.\n\n[Illustration: With a wonderful note of exceeding joy, he spread his\nwings and flew round the bower, returning again to perch on the child's\nstill outstretched hand, as if in gratitude.]\n\nAnd then--and then--oh if you could have heard the carol of delight that\nburst out from the comrades of the spell-freed redbreast! It was too\nbeautiful to describe; nor could it be described in human language. For\nafter all, exquisite as may be the bird songs--nightingales' or\nthrushes', blackbirds' or larks', which delight us, it cannot, I fear,\nfall to our lot to hear them, as did favoured Linde, in fairyland!\n\nShe stood enraptured till the melody subsided and there was silence\nagain, broken by the voice of the small master of the ceremonies.\n\n\"It is done,\" he said, \"and perfectly done. The spell is broken, the sad\nenchantment ended. The forest is our own again. Our beloved ancestor\nrestored to us and to the life of which he was so cruelly deprived\nbefore he had had his rightful share.\"\n\n\"Oh the joy of it, the joy of it!\" trilled the resuscitated bird, as he\nfluttered from Linde's hand to her shoulder, and a chorus of sympathy\nburst out again.\n\nBut Linde's guide had not yet finished his speech. He held up one claw\nand there was silence.\n\n\"Friends,\" he began again. \"What is to be this maiden's reward for what\nshe has done? Our gracious lady protector, the Queen of the Fairies, has\nleft it to us to decide. We must be generous as well as grateful, for\nLinde deserves it of us--and remember, but for her sweet and loving\nnature, not all her courage in braving alone the cold and darkness could\nhave succeeded. Brothers, shall we let her choose her reward?\"\n\nA universal chirp of \"Yes, yes\" was the reply.\n\nSo the speaker turned again to the little girl.\n\n\"Linde,\" he said, \"good Linde, you who have never been guilty of a cruel\nunkind deed, Linde, you who have been brave and obedient, what do you\nchoose?\"\n\n\"Oh robin, dear robin,\" she exclaimed, \"I think you must know already.\nThe leaves, the delicious leaves from the redbreast's roses--if we may\nalways have these, Aria and I will be safe and happy. I will come to\nfetch them in the middle of the night or whenever you like--and,\" she\nadded, with a little smile, \"_might_ I have the fairy spade too?\"\n\nThe robin held up his claw again.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" came the answer in bird language, followed by some chirps\nwhich Linde's ears were not yet \"fairy-wise\" enough to translate.\n\n\"Your requests are granted,\" said the president. \"You may keep the\nspade,\" for it was still lying beside her. \"Small as it is, it is\nendowed with magic power. If you keep it bright and clean it will do\ngood work in your garden. And my friends and relations, headed by our\nrevered ancestor,\" he waved his claw, and the kingly robin fluttered to\nLinde's head, where he gave an approving chirp, replied to by the\naudience, \"desire me to say that it will not be necessary for you to\nfetch the leaves. You will only require to place the old jar on the\nwindow-sill overnight whenever it needs replenishing, laying the three\nfeathers inside it; and in the morning it will be filled as you wish.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you,\" cried Linde again, \"and now, dear robins, I must\nhurry home. I shall never forget this lovely place. May I never come\nagain?\"\n\nHer guide answered rather sadly.\n\n\"I fear not. Few, very few, mortals have come even as far as an entrance\nto fairyland. Nor could you ever find this spot again, try as you might.\nBut we--we robins, will often see you in the forest, no longer forbidden\nground.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is true,\" Linde replied cheerfully. \"Then good-night--not\ngood-bye, to you all, and please tell me how I am to get up again to the\nclearing, so as to run home to relieve Aria's anxiety and tell her the\ngood news.\"\n\n\"That _we_ will manage,\" said her first friend. \"Birds!\"\n\nThere was an answering flutter.\n\n\"Seat yourself comfortably, my child, and close your eyes.\"\n\nLinde obeyed, but not before seeing and feeling that all the assembled\nrobins were flying down and surrounding her, so that with the velvety\nsoftness of the grassy sod and the fluffy feeling of the feathered\ncreatures encircling her, she seemed in a cosy nest, and already\nsomewhat sleepy. Then a slight touch on the top of her head made her\nstart a little.\n\n\"It is only we two,\" chirped her guide, \"I and the noble bird who owes\nhis life to you. We are here to direct the air voyage. Rest, my child,\nrest and be at peace.\"\n\nLinde did not know that she fell asleep, though afterwards she knew it\nmust have been so. She felt herself rising, rising--then a breath of\ncolder air met her face, and--that was all she knew, till--she awoke,\nand found herself in the porch of the cottage, and--to prove the night's\nadventures had been no dream, in one hand the little spade, in the other\nthe three red feathers, still firmly clasped.\n\nShe was a very practical maiden, in spite of her fairy perceptions, so\nthe first thing she did was to lay the small treasures safely in the old\njar, saying to herself, and \"to-morrow night--no, I should say to-night,\nwe will place it outside on the window-sill and in the morning it will\nbe filled with the lovely leaves. What news, what joy to tell Aria!\"\n\nShe ran upstairs--softly--but her sister was awake.\n\n\"Darling,\" she said, \"are you really safely back? Yet I have not been\nanxious. Somehow I felt you were all right and I have had a peaceful\nsleep.\"\n\nThen Linde told her the whole wonderful story and showed her the little\nspade. And at night you may be sure they did not forget to put the jar\nin the appointed place, to find it in the morning replenished with\nrose-leaves whose perfume seemed even more delicious than ever before.\nSo Saturday found them with plenty of their treasured wares for sale,\nand quickly were they bought.\n\nNor was this only temporary good fortune.\n\nThe fame of their dried roses spread far and wide, and orders came from\ngreat distances, so that the two sisters were able not only to go on\nliving together in greater comfort than they had ever known, but even to\nlay aside savings for a possible \"rainy day.\"\n\nThough as far as I could learn--this story, you know, is of a fairly\nlong ago \"once upon a time\"--that day never came to the happy girls.\nThe robins never failed them. The cottage garden and the neighbouring\nforest grew to be famed for the peculiarly beautiful redbreasts which\nthere abounded. The uncanny reputation of the woods was quite forgotten,\nand on the contrary it was said to bring good luck to those who often\nstrolled about in them.\n\nI think both Aria and Linde married in due time and had happy homes of\ntheir own. One or other certainly did so, for the country-folk of that\nremote part of the world, from whom I learnt the story, showed me a\nspecially lovely rose--\"the robins' rose,\" it was called, and told me\nthat it had been cultivated by the descendants of the sisters, till, for\nsome reasons which I could not discover, the family had moved elsewhere.\n\n\"And they do say,\" added one aged dame, \"that they grew to be rich and\nimportant, much looked up to and respected, which one can believe, if\nthey took after their great-grandmothers and were favoured by the 'good\npeople,' as those pretty maidens were.\"\n\nI suppose the old jar and the magic spade were carried away as\nheirlooms, for though I looked about in some very curious antique shops\nin the neighbouring town, hoping to find one or both, I never succeeded\nin doing so, nor could I trace the family at all, which is scarcely to\nbe wondered at, as no one still living remembered the sisters save by\nthe quaint names of \"Aria\" and \"Linde\"--names which I love, and which I\nhope this story may lead others to love also.\n\n\n\n\nA Magic Table\n\n\nOnce upon a time--how long ago really does not matter--there lived in a\ncertain country--and where that country is, does not matter\neither--three young men of about the same age. They were not brothers,\nbut they had always been neighbours, and they must have been some sort\nof cousins, for they had an old relation whom they all called uncle and\nwho called them all nephews.\n\n\"Nephew Hodge,\" \"nephew Giles,\" and \"nephew Michael.\" Those were their\nnames, though I fancy the last--he was the youngest--was more often\n\"Mike\" than \"Michael.\"\n\nThey were all three steady, well-behaved fellows, and very friendly with\neach other, which was natural as in several ways their circumstances\nwere curiously alike. They were all orphans, and though Hodge and Giles\nhad sisters, these were married and settled at a distance, and as for\nMike he had nobody at all belonging to him, and as he was a very\naffectionate creature, but for his two friends he would have felt lonely\nindeed. They were all poor--very poor--the one thing each had inherited\nfrom his parents was a home, such as it was. Just a small cottage with a\nbit of garden ground, which in their leisure hours each cultivated to\nthe best of his ability, thus growing some hardy fruit and vegetables\nwhich helped to support them, and a few pretty flowers, to brighten\nthings up a bit.\n\nThey had a little friendly rivalry over these tiny gardens. Hodge's\nproduced the best vegetables, Giles's the finest fruit, but young\nMichael's far and away the loveliest flowers. And instead of quarrelling\nas to which of them deserved the most praise as a gardener, like\nsensible fellows, each gave a present to the other two of his special\ntriumphs.\n\nThere was still another curious bond between the three--which in most\ncases would have been the very reverse of a bond, and pretty certainly\nwould have dissolved the friendship. They were all in love with the same\ngirl. A charming girl she was, but of her, more shall be told hereafter.\nPerhaps the hopelessness of their admiration for her helped to keep the\npeace, for they were far too poor to aspire to her, as she was a damsel\nwith a dowry of gold and silver, as well as of sweet looks and sweet\ncharacter. So the three used to sit together and sing her praises with\nno bitterness or jealousy.\n\nThe cottages stood at some distance apart, half or a quarter of a mile\nor so between them. So that in busy seasons, such as hay-making or\nharvesting, our friends sometimes saw very little of each other for days\nat a time, as they were not labourers on the same farm. But the long\ndull winter evenings they made a point of spending together, taking\ntheir cottages in turns as a meeting-place, for as to comfort, the three\ndwellings were much of a muchness, though Mike's somehow always looked\nthe nicest, as in summer he adorned it with his flowers, and even in\nwinter managed to tie up bunches of pretty leaves and bright-coloured\nberries to give his kitchen a cheerful air.\n\nAnd besides these friendly evenings, the three young men always met on\nSundays, and that all the year round. For on that day they had a\nstanding invitation to dine with the old uncle, who was, as I forgot to\nsay, also godfather to all three.\n\nThis personage was in some ways very peculiar and indeed rather\nmysterious. Strange stories were whispered concerning him through the\ncountry-side. Some said that he was a wizard; nearly all agreed that, at\nbest, he had dealings with \"the good people.\" But though to a certain\nextent he was feared, he was not disliked, as on more than one occasion\nhe was known to have shown great kindness to families in distress,\nthough how he came to hear so quickly of other folks' troubles remained\na mystery, as he lived at a considerable distance from any other\ndwelling, and was too infirm ever to leave his own cottage.\n\nHe was of course reputed to be very rich, but that, as you will learn,\nwas a mistake. And a miser he could not well be called, considering the\nkind actions I have alluded to, and the steady hospitality he showed to\nhis godsons, Hodge, Giles, and Michael. The truth was--and there need be\nno secret about it--that \"Uncle Peter\" had a small pension for life,\nsufficient to keep him in simple comfort. For long ago he had been a\nsoldier and a brave one, though he seldom talked of those old days. Sad\nthings had happened to him, and for many years he had been a lonely man\nbefore, just about the time these grandnephews of his were born, he\nwandered back to the part of the country which had been his home as a\nboy, there, like Rip Van Winkle, to find none of his generation left,\nthough he made friends in his own way with the remaining members of his\nfamily and their children.\n\nPeter had travelled far and had seen queer places and queer people and\nhad learnt some queer things. It was no great wonder that he got the\nname of being something of a wizard, for there was no doubt that he knew\nof things happening or going to happen in ways that could not be\nexplained. But notwithstanding this, he was not regarded with fear, only\nwith a kind of respectful awe. Even his godsons felt this, though at the\nsame time they were really attached to him and grateful for his\nhospitality, in itself of a very strange character. For though he was\nnever known to buy food of any sort, and was supposed to live entirely\nupon the fruit and vegetables he himself grew, and though he had no one\nto cook for him and no fireplace or stove where anything but the very\nsimplest things could be boiled or roasted or even heated, the weekly\ndinner provided for his three guests, every Sunday, was of the very\nbest. Not only was the food of excellent quality, it was also abundant.\nIndeed, at times when work was short, as in the winter often is the\ncase, both for artisans in towns and for labourers in the country, I\ndoubt if the three cousins would have kept as well and hearty as they\ndid but for this substantial and nourishing meal regularly once a week.\n\nThey had often wondered how Uncle Peter managed it, and once or twice\nthey had hazarded a tactful enquiry of their host on the subject. But it\nhad served no purpose. On the contrary, both Hodge and Giles, who had\nbeen the questioners, had been quickly silenced by the old man's reply.\n\n\"Did you never hear the proverb about not looking a gift horse in the\nmouth?\" he said the first time. \"True, there is nothing about my dishes\nwhich you are not free to test if you choose, both as to quality and\ncooking. All the same, I think the saying conveys a broad hint as to the\ncourtesy suited to those who accept a gift.\"\n\nAnd to Giles he was even more severe.\n\n\"When you invite me to a Sunday feast, my good nephew,\" he said, \"I\npromise to eat thereof with gratitude, and with no curiosity as to\nwhence or how you procured it,\" at which reprimand Giles looked very\nfoolish, and could only humbly ask Peter's pardon, adding, \"That day, I\nmisdoubt me, my respected uncle, will never dawn.\"\n\nFor, as I have already said, the three young men were very poor.\n\nStill, when they were sitting of an evening by themselves, with no fear\nof offending the old man by their talk, it was only natural that they\nshould discuss the mystery. There was a peculiar rule about their Sunday\nvisit. They were obliged to be exceedingly punctual, by which I mean,\nneither too early nor too late. Half an hour after noon was the\nappointed time, so they arranged to meet at church, and when the service\nwas over to wait in the porch till the ancient clock struck twelve, as\nthey found that by then starting at once for Peter's cottage and walking\nrather quickly they reached it just a minute or two before the dinner\nhour.\n\nOften, when waiting thus at the church door, they would receive a smile\nand a nod from the girl they all adored--pretty Ysenda--and now and then\nshe would even stop a moment and say to whichever of the three happened\nto be nearest at hand, \"My love to Uncle Peter, and a pleasant visit to\nhim.\" Not that he was her uncle or any relation, but she had got into\nthe habit of going to see him sometimes out of pity for his loneliness,\nand the old man had taken a great fancy to her. In fact she was the only\nvisitor he ever received, with of course the exception of the nephews on\nSunday.\n\nOnce--some time ago it was, when the custom had first begun--Michael had\nby accident arrived at Peter's cottage some minutes before the others.\nHe was on the point of knocking at the door when something stopped him.\nHe afterwards declared that he did not know what. But standing there, he\nheard sounds within--curious sounds--his uncle's voice, slow and solemn\nas if reciting something, then a very delicate tinkle as of a tiny bell,\nand lastly a whirring sound as of wheels moving quickly, and then\ncomplete silence. And while he was debating as to whether he should\nknock or not, to his relief he heard his cousins' footsteps approaching.\nHe turned back a little way to meet them, but before he had time to tell\nthem what he had heard, the door opened and their host stood there\nbidding them welcome.\n\nEver after that they all three came together as I have told you, and\nwaited at a little distance till their uncle made his appearance. For\nMichael confided to his cousins that there had been something uncanny\nabout the mysterious sounds. Furthermore he felt instinctively that he\nhad not been meant to overhear them, and that if Peter knew of it he\nmight have been angry, and possibly would never have invited them again.\n\nHence, Michael, of the three, was the most careful as to what he said to\nthe old man, and never did he venture to show any curiosity on the\nsubject of the whence or how of the mysterious feast.\n\nBut now and then he had a queer feeling that pretty Ysenda\n_knew_--what?--he could not define it, more clearly than by suspecting\nthat she was in old Peter's confidence in a way that he and his friends\nwere not.\n\nAnd one evening--it was a Saturday--when the three were sitting together\nin his cottage, he expressed something of the kind to Hodge and Giles.\nThey were very much surprised.\n\n\"She is a good, true-hearted maiden,\" he added. \"I don't for a moment\nmean that she has any selfish motives for her attentions to our\ngodfather.\"\n\n\"That's to say you don't suspect her of trying to supplant us in his\nfavour, as to inheriting whatever he has to leave?\" said Hodge. There\nwas some suspicion in his tone, much as he admired Ysenda.\n\n\"One never knows,\" added Giles. \"_She_ may have no thought of the\nkind--why should she? She is rich already--all the same, Uncle Peter may\nmake her his heir, without her being to blame.\"\n\n\"I think it most unlikely,\" replied Michael. \"No such idea was in my\nmind. Besides,\" he went on, growing rather indignant, \"Ysenda is just\nthe girl to put a stop to anything unfair. She is as kind and generous\nas a woman can be. We all know of her goodness in any case of poverty or\ndistress that she hears of. No, all I meant was that she may know\nsomething of Uncle Peter's dealings with the 'good people'; she is just\nthe sort of sweet maiden that the fairies love.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" said Giles, who was not very ready to believe in anything he\ncould not see with his own eyes, \"maybe she herself is the only fairy in\nthe matter. Maybe _she_ provides the feast.\"\n\n\"Impossible,\" said Hodge and Mike, and so it was.\n\n\"Anyway,\" persisted Giles, \"I daresay it's she who tells him of the\nmisfortunes and accidents he gets to know of so quickly.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" replied Michael, \"she has told me herself that it has\noften been Uncle Peter who has been _her_ informant in such matters, and\nthat he has employed her to carry assistance to the sufferers. There\nwas that great fire last winter at Olden Wood. She happened to see him\nthe very same morning while it was still blazing, five miles off, and no\none hereabouts knew of it! And the letter from over the sea telling of\nWidow Martha's son's death, reducing her to poverty, for he'd been a\ngood son, always sending her money. _Why_,\" Mike went on very solemnly,\n\"_he knew what was in that letter_ before it had reached Martha's\nhands!\"\n\nThere was no reply to this. Even Giles was much impressed, and all three\nstarted when just at that moment there came a tap at the door, for it\nwas getting late, and being far on in the autumn the evening grew dark\nvery early.\n\nThe cousins looked at each other half timorously, for even the bravest\nof men--and they were by no means cowards--may be momentarily frightened\nby anything uncanny.\n\nThe tap was repeated.\n\nMichael got up and opened the door cautiously. What he expected to see\nhe could not have said, but a witch astride on a gander, or a goblin\nwith scarlet ears as big as a donkey's and a long tail, would scarcely\nhave surprised him!\n\nInstead--how different!--there stood two small figures--children\nevidently, and as a very plaintive little voice reached him, he threw\nopen the door more widely, so that the light from within fell on the\nnew-comers, and he perceived that they were a boy and girl, apparently\nabout twelve or fourteen years old, poorly though decently clad, each\ncarrying a bundle, and with pale, travel-tired faces.\n\n\"Please,\" said the voice--it was the boy's, the elder of the two--\"oh\nplease can you tell me if Dame Martha Swann lives here or near here?\"\n\nMichael started again. It was of this very dame he had just been\nspeaking. Were these two of the \"good people\" in disguise, come to visit\nhim for some mysterious reason? He took care to answer very politely.\n\n\"Not here, but not so very far off,\" he replied, and the gentleness of\nhis tone encouraged the child to ask further. \"Then can you show us the\nroad there? We are dreadfully tired--at least my little sister is, and\nwe have lost our way somehow.\"\n\nAs the boy went on speaking, Michael's misgivings left him. The two were\nplainly ordinary human beings, though something in the child's voice or\naccent showed that they did not belong to this part of the world.\n\n\"Come in and rest yourselves for a while,\" said Mike. \"Warm yourselves\ntoo. It is a chilly evening.\"\n\n\"Oh thank you,\" was the reply, as the two eagerly accepted his\ninvitation. He led them towards the fire and drew forward seats, while\nHodge and Giles, their pipes in their hands, stared in surprise.\n\n\"Whom have we here?\" exclaimed Hodge; his tone sounded suspicious, and\nGiles too hung back a little.\n\n\"How should I know?\" said Michael sharply. \"You see as much as I.\nWhoever they are and wherever from, it's surely the least one can do to\nlet them rest for a few minutes. No doubt they can explain about\nthemselves. You were asking for old Dame Martha, my boy?\" he went on.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" was the ready reply, \"we are her grandchildren. My name is\nPaul--Paul Swann, like father,\" his voice shook, \"and----\"\n\n\"I'm Mattie,\" said the girl, speaking for the first time. \"That's for\n'Martha,' like granny. Oh how I wish this was her house! I'm so tired.\"\n\n\"Poor little maid,\" said Michael kindly. \"Well it's not so far to your\ngranny's, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll carry you there myself.\nBut first you must have a bite of bread and a drink of milk. I'll have\nit ready in a minute,\" and he turned to the cupboard, which was almost\nas bare as Mother Hubbard's, for the bread and milk were all there was\nfor his own breakfast!\n\nThe children were famishing. The food disappeared in a twinkling. Then\nthe boy explained that they had come all across the sea to take refuge\nwith their grandmother in their desolation since their father's death,\nfor their mother had died five years ago. Some kindly disposed people\nhad seen them on board the ship, and given them a little money to carry\nthem the rest of the way on landing. But the very first night ashore\nsome wicked person had stolen it, so there was nothing for it but to\ncome on, on foot. It was really no very great distance, not more than\neight to ten miles from the seaport, but they were strangers in a\nstrange land, almost afraid to ask their way, and they had probably\nwandered astray. This was their pitiful story.\n\nBut already Michael's kindness had revived them, and they stood up,\neager to get to the only home they had now a chance of. The cousins\nlooked at each other. What was in store for the poor things? Their\ngrandmother, a loving soul, would welcome them no doubt, and share with\nthem all she had. But that \"all\" was really nothing. She was feeble and\ncrippled with rheumatism. But for old Peter and his friend Ysenda, she\nwould before this have risked dying of starvation.\n\nHowever--\"Cheer up,\" said Michael, as he hoisted little Mattie on to his\nshoulder, Paul loading himself with the bundles. \"Cheer up. We'll be at\nthe good dame's in no time. Giles,\" he went on, for Hodge was looking\nsulky and disapproving, \"Giles, you might do worse than help the boy--or\nat least bring a bundle of my faggots and come with us. Martha's fire\nwill be none too big.\"\n\nGiles started forward, half shamed into doing his part--and Hodge, who\nwas, after all, more stupid than bad-hearted, drew out of his pocket two\nsmall copper coins, which he handed to Paul.\n\n\"Tell your granny,\" he said, \"that's to help to get you some milk for\nbreakfast from the farm near by her cottage.\"\n\nPaul smiled gratefully and thanked him.\n\nThen they set off--Hodge walking with them a part of the way, till he\nreached the turning to his own home.\n\nThe poor dame was still up--sitting by the tiny fire in her kitchen,\ngrudging to lose any of its welcome warmth, when Michael--leaving the\nothers at the door--stepped in warily with a cheerful \"good evening,\" so\nas not to terrify the lonely old woman.\n\nMingled indeed were her feelings, as you can imagine. Loving delight as\nshe clasped the little travellers in her trembling arms, though even in\nthat first moment the dire misgiving seized her as to how they were to\nbe fed and clothed! So pathetic are often the greatest joys of the very\npoor.\n\nBut the children for the moment had no such fears.\n\n\"Oh granny, granny,\" cried the little girl, \"it is so sweet, so lovely\nto have found you,\" and Paul turned away to hide the tears which he\nthought himself too big a boy to give way to.\n\nThey were near Michael's own eyes, and even Giles had a lump in his\nthroat as he set to work to build up the fire with the bundle of his\ncousin's faggots.\n\nThe dame looked about her anxiously.\n\n\"My darlings, you must be hungry,\" she was beginning, but the little\nnew-comers interrupted her.\n\n\"No, no,\" they said, with the quick thoughtfulness of the children of\ntheir class, \"this kind man,\" pointing to Michael, \"gave us supper at\nhis house. We only want to go to bed, and it will be so beautiful to\nwake in the morning and to find we are with our own granny.\"\n\n\"And I have money to get some more bread and milk for breakfast,\" added\nPaul, jingling the two coppers in his pocket, \"so that will be all\nright.\"\n\nWith the help of the two young men, a bed was soon made up for the boy\non the old kitchen settle, as there was room for little Mattie beside\nthe dame. Everything in the cottage was scrupulously clean, for to have\nhad it otherwise would have broken Dame Martha's heart, and by the handy\nway that the children moved about, tired though they were, she was\npleased to see that they had been well and carefully brought up. So for\nthe moment she tried to dismiss her anxiety.\n\nBut when the cousins said good-night and set off on their way home\nMichael's heart felt heavy for the little family.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" he murmured, \"if only I were rich!\"\n\n\"What then?\" asked Giles. \"You'd be for taking the lot of them on your\nshoulders, I suppose. Well, as things are, you can't do so. Of course\nthey must all go to the workhouse, though to-night it would have been\ncruel to hint at such a thing.\"\n\nMichael said nothing, but he had some hope that this might be avoided.\n\nThat very day--I have said it was a Saturday--a long conversation had\ntaken place at old Peter's between himself and his favourite Ysenda.\n\nShe had looked in as she often did, and was startled and distressed to\nfind him far from well.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, in answer to her kindly enquiries, \"yes, my dear young\nfriend, I am failing fast. You must not grieve about it--the thought of\ndying is very familiar to me and far from unwelcome. But there is\nsomething I wish to consult you about. You know my secret. You know the\nonly legacy I can leave behind me. It is as to this that I want to know\nyour opinion, for you have a good sound judgment as well as a kind\nheart. To me myself the greatest pleasure would be to bequeath my magic\ngift to _you_, my dear Ysenda.\"\n\nBut the girl, as he had in his heart expected, shook her head.\n\n\"No, dear Peter,\" she replied. \"There are those nearer to you than I,\nand more in need of help. Besides--I know the secret; the fulfilling its\nconditions would therefore be no test of my deserving its benefits. Nor\ndo I stand in want of them. No--dear friend--if, as you kindly say, you\nconsider my advice worth attending to, I would propose this. Bequeath\nthe enchanted table to whichever of your three nephews discovers the\ninner spell which governs it. In this there will be nothing unfair. You\ncan teach them the magic words, and then inform them that the further\nsecret must be sought and found by themselves--or by himself. Hodge is\nthe eldest--let him have the first trial, then Giles, and lastly\nMichael.\"\n\n\"And if--supposing Hodge succeeds?\" said Peter with a rather curious\nenquiry in his tone.\n\nYsenda's face flushed a little.\n\n\"Well then, it would be all right. He would continue to use his power as\nit should be used.\"\n\n\"And Giles?\"\n\n\"In the same way, of course,\" she replied.\n\n\"But--if both failed, and Mike came to have his try at it?\"\n\nYsenda raised her pretty head with a gesture of pride.\n\n\"_Then_,\" she replied, \"it would most certainly be all right. As to\n_Michael's_ good heart I have no misgiving whatever. Quite independently\nof the spell, no sooner would he have it in his power to show kindness\nto any one in need of it than he would be eager to do so.\"\n\n\"I agree with you,\" said her old friend; and to himself he added, \"I\nsuspected as much. Ah well, they are worthy of each other, and I trust\nthat all will prosper with them.\"\n\nThen after a moment's silence he went on again:\n\n\"I will do as you advise, my child. To-morrow I will announce my\nintention, and take the three into my confidence as far as is necessary.\nThen when my own summons comes I shall feel that I have acted for the\nbest--fairly by all, though my own wishes are with that good young\nfellow, Michael.\"\n\nYsenda rose to go.\n\n\"You will come again soon?\" said the old man. \"The sands are running out\nquickly, I feel, and I am not likely to be mistaken.\"\n\n\"Dear Peter,\" whispered the young girl, and the tears rose to her eyes.\n\n\"Bless you, my child,\" laying his hand on her shoulder. Then just as she\nwas turning away, a curious, listening expression crept over his face.\n\"Yes, yes,\" he murmured, as if in reply to some inaudible voice, \"yes.\"\n\nYsenda felt a little frightened, and of this Peter seemed at once aware.\nHe patted her again.\n\n\"Do not be alarmed,\" he said, with a smile. \"I have no dealings with the\nblack arts. But certain things are communicated to me in ways that I\nmust not reveal. And just now--I am glad you were still here. Trouble,\nor rather perplexity--for the trouble is mingled with joy--is at hand\nfor our good old friend Dame Martha. Will you go to see her to-morrow,\nYsenda, and learn about it?\"\n\n\"I was already intending to enquire how she is,\" said the girl. \"I will\ncertainly not fail to see her, and I will do all I can to help her, you\nmay be sure.\"\n\n\"Of that I have no doubt,\" said Peter. \"Good-night, my child.\"\n\nMany things passed through Ysenda's mind as she walked slowly home. She\nhad no mother, and her father, though devoted to her, his only child,\nwas a hard man. He thought her fanciful and romantic, as she had on\nseveral occasions refused to marry to please him. For his great idea was\nthat her husband should be a wealthy man.\n\n\"He must at least show on his side as handsome a sum as will be the\ndowry I give you,\" he had often repeated. But so far, none of the\nsuitors that in this respect were approved of by the father had found\nfavour in his daughter's eyes, so that he began to think the girl had\ndetermined against marrying at all, little suspecting the love that had\nalready crept into her sweet heart.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" he thought to himself, \"better live single than make a poor\nchoice of some pauper who would squander her fortune, though for that\nmatter, unless I look to it, she will be for giving it all away in\ncharity once the breath's out of my body. Ysenda is too 'giving' by\nhalf.\"\n\nAnd with this idea, rich though he was, the father kept the girl but\nslenderly supplied with money. She had to account to him for every\nfarthing, and only by denying herself many little things she had\nnaturally a right to expect, was she able to help her poorer neighbours.\nAnd without old Peter's contributions, though in cash he had not much to\ngive, still less would it have been possible for her to assist those in\nneed.\n\n\"How I shall miss him!\" she said to herself. \"For some reasons I could\nwish he had bequeathed the magic table to me--to what advantage I could\nhave used it! But it would not have been fair or right. Oh if only\nMichael wins it! Somehow----\" and vague hopes began to flutter in her\nheart, for that the young fellow--no less than the others, in their own\nway--adored her, she could not doubt. \"It might make things different,\"\nshe thought. But then she resolutely put the idea away. \"No, no, I must\nnot dwell on it. It is almost as if I were looking forward to dear old\nPeter's death. And oh, by the bye, I must not forget to go to see old\nMartha Swann to-morrow. I wonder what new trouble has befallen\nher--trouble mingled with joy, he said, and of course _I_ know, as no\none else knows, that Peter is in touch with the good people; the really\ngood fairies, they must be, for he would have no dealings with\nmischievous, spiteful imps.\"\n\nNow I must tell you what happened the next day--the eventful Sunday on\nwhich the old man felt that the time had come for his strange secret to\nbe revealed to his three godsons.\n\nThey were there in good time as usual, waiting outside for the opening\nof the door and their host's appearing.\n\nHodge, as was his way, was very hungry and in a hurry to set to work at\nthe excellent dinner which no doubt awaited them. Giles too agreed with\nhim that under the circumstances time passed far too slowly. Michael,\nwho of the three had every reason for more than ordinary hunger, as he\nhad not tasted food since his early supper the day before, his\nbreakfast, as you will remember, having been otherwise disposed of--poor\nMichael said nothing. His thoughts were running on the two little waifs\nthat he had escorted to their grandmother, and not only on them and Dame\nMartha, but on kind Ysenda. For, coming out of church, she had whispered\nto him that she feared their old friend was in trouble. \"I am going to\nher at once,\" she said, and ran off before the young man had time to\nreply.\n\n\"How did she know?\" Michael wondered. \"Perhaps through Uncle Peter's\nqueer ways. However, she'll look after the poor things for a day or two,\nthough it isn't very much that even Ysenda, bless her, can do, rich\nthough her father is,\" for the farmer's peculiarities were no secret.\n\nSo Michael had plenty to think of, as well as of being hungry, while\nstanding with his cousins outside the old man's cottage.\n\nAnd after all, they were kept waiting a shorter time than usual. It\nstill wanted some minutes to the half-hour after noon when the door\nopened and their uncle beckoned to them to enter.\n\nEven as they did so, they felt that things were not quite the same as on\nformer occasions. To begin with, the dinner was not ready; far from it,\nthe table was not even to be seen!\n\nHodge's face fell, so did Giles's, as the same misgiving seized them.\n\n\"Supposing he's not going to give us any dinner at all,\" they thought.\n\"Maybe he's been too feeble to see to it.\"\n\nFor a glance showed them that their host had sadly changed, even in a\nweek. His face was as white as his hair, and as he sank into his old\narmchair he almost looked as if he was going to faint. Michael sprang\nforward.\n\n\"Dear uncle,\" he cried, and you may be sure that the fear of losing his\ndinner had no place in his thoughts, \"dear uncle, you are\nill--suffering. Will you let me run for the doctor?\"\n\nBut even as the young man spoke, a little colour returned to Peter's\ncheeks and he smiled.\n\n\"No, no, my boy,\" he said, and his voice was very gentle, \"no need for\ndoctors. I can manage for myself. It was just a turn, but I shall be\nbetter again now for a bit, though not for long. I have been anxious to\nsee you all to-day, for I misdoubt me if it is not the last time----\"\nMichael gave a little exclamation of distress, and the other two looked\nvery grave. \"I am very old, you know, my dear nephews, and tired. I\nshall be glad to rest. But first I have something to tell you. I have no\nmoney to leave behind me, and but few little possessions, but I have a\nsecret, and the time has now come for me to reveal it to you three, my\nonly living relations.\"\n\nHe stopped for a moment and drank a little water, which seemed to revive\nhim.\n\n\"The country-folk, you know, call me a wizard,\" he went on.\n\"Well--well--it does me no harm! I have learnt some strange things--I\nhave wandered some little way into regions where few mortals are allowed\nto tread; I have had some dealings with beings of another kind of life\nthan ours; in some ways I have been of use to the 'good people,' as they\nare called, and they to me. But such knowledge as I have acquired I can\ntruly declare I have only used for the advantage of my fellows. My\nlearning of this sort will pass away with me--I can leave behind me none\nof my secrets save one, and this--this spell I am now about to reveal to\nyou three.\"\n\nHe stopped again. The eyes of the young men were fixed upon him in\nbreathless eagerness. What were they about to hear? But some instinct\nkept them all silent. Time enough for thanks, thought Hodge and Giles,\nwhen they knew what there was to thank for. And as for Michael, his\ncuriosity was kept back by the real sorrow he felt at the idea of the\nold man's approaching death.\n\nPeter went on again:\n\n\"As children,\" he said, \"I daresay you heard many of the old fairy tales\nhanded down for generations--tales to be found in one shape or another\nall the world over, it seems to me. So it often struck me that for some\nof them, at least, there must be a foundation of truth at bottom, and I\nset myself to use my little knowledge of these matters to discover it. I\nfailed in several cases--I was wanting in certain qualifications. But as\nto one so-called legend I succeeded. Do you remember the old tale of the\ngrateful gnome who taught his human benefactor how to make sure of a\ngood dinner, by using a certain spell?\"\n\nHodge pricked up his ears at the word \"dinner.\" So did Giles, but though\nthey had some vague memory of the well-known story, they were half\nafraid to say so, for fear of Peter's cross-questioning them. But\nMichael answered at once, for he had always loved fairy stories, that\nhe remembered the one of the magic table quite distinctly.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said the old man, \"I am going to show you that it was\ntrue, for the spell by which the feast was made to appear still exists.\nNow, all of you, listen carefully to my words. I may repeat them thrice,\nwhich will enable you to learn them perfectly, but after the third time\nyou must trust to your memory.\"\n\nThen sitting up erect on his chair, he recited, slowly and distinctly\nthrice, as he had said, these words:\n\n    \"Little table, fair to see,\n    Magic bell now summons thee.\n    Spread with viands good to taste,\n    Fairy table, prithee haste!\"\n\nand after a moment's silence, when he had ended the incantation, he drew\nout a tiny silver bell--a mere toy of a thing--and rang it sharply.\n\nThen there reached the ears of the astonished guests a whirring sound as\nif of invisible wheels revolving quickly. It was faint at first, but\ngradually seemed to come nearer, or rather, I should say, to rise\nupwards. It was of course the same sound which Michael had heard that\nSunday, when he had unwittingly approached too near the cottage before\nthe appointed time. And suddenly, with a sort of swing as of well-oiled\ndoors opening swiftly, the flooring drew apart, and before the watchers\ncould see how or whence it came, there stood in its accustomed place, in\nthe centre of the kitchen, the table they all knew so well, bearing on\nits snow-white cover the tempting savoury dishes, neatly arranged and\nsteaming hot. Enough truly, so tempting did they look, so excellently\ndid they smell, to make even the least greedily disposed person's mouth\nwater.\n\nFor a minute or two the young men were too astounded to speak. Then\nPeter smiled.\n\n\"Do not look so startled,\" he said reassuringly. \"The dinner is what you\nhave enjoyed many and many a time, and it has been sent in the same way.\nHave no misgivings. Draw round it, and make a hearty meal.\"\n\nThey did so with many murmurs of surprise and admiration; and for once,\nperhaps, it may be of interest to know of what the dinner consisted. At\none end was a roast capon, cooked to perfection, at the other a ham, of\nso delicate a colour and flavour that it must surely have belonged to a\nfairy pig! Then there were potatoes, so white and floury that I feel\nconvinced they must have been whisked over from Ireland, and delicious\ngreen sprouts of the kind that I, as a child, and I daresay many other\nchildren with me, used always to call \"fairy cabbages,\" so exactly like\nminiatures of the large ordinary kind are they. And as side dishes,\nwhich apparently were still in fashion in the land of the gnomes or\nbrownies, stood fruit pies whose pastry melted in your mouth, so light\nand flaky was it. And last, not least, a crystal bowl filled with cream,\nwhich surely must have come from Devon or Cornwall, or the places which\nmatch those in fairyland!\n\nAnd in spite of their wonder and astonishment the three guests did\njustice to the feast, I assure you, for they were all very hungry.\n\nTheir host watched them with satisfaction, though eating but little\nhimself. And when they had finished and turned to him, as was their\ncustom, to thank him for their excellent repast, he smiled kindly.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, \"you shall see the end of the matter.\"\n\nHe rang the bell, and in a moment or two the whirring noise was heard,\nthe floor gently opened and the table descended, then the aperture\nclosed and all was as it had been when the three entered the cottage.\nAnd again they gazed in amazement, for on former occasions they had\nbidden Peter good-bye and taken leave, with the table and the remains of\nthe meal still standing in the kitchen.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the old man. \"I do not wonder at your surprise. And now I\nmust explain further. It is in my power to bequeath my secret to one of\nyou. In fact I have told a part of the spell to you all. But a part\nonly. There is a condition attached to its acting successfully which I\ncannot and must not tell you. The very fact of my doing so would destroy\nthe whole. You shall each have a fair chance. You, Hodge, as the eldest\nmust have the first. Here is the magic bell,\" and he handed him the\npretty toy as he spoke. \"Keep it safely, and use it as you have seen me\ndo, after repeating the verse I have taught you. Next Sunday at the same\nhour; that is the appointed time. But--remember there is a condition\nwhich you must fulfil; consider the matter well in your own mind; ponder\nit during the next few days. If you succeed, well and good; if not, you\nmust pass on the bell to Giles, that he may have his chance. And if he\nfails, it will be for Michael. There must be no disputes about it--to do\nyou justice I do not fear that there will be, for I have watched you\nall, and have been pleased to see that you lived in amity, without\njealousy or ill-will. And I have treated you all with perfect fairness.\"\n\n\"You have indeed,\" said all the three together, adding, \"and we shall\nnot forget it. Fair play's a jewel.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Michael anxiously, \"you speak of next Sunday, dear uncle.\nMay we not meet here again as usual while you are still with us?\"\n\nThe old man laid his withered hand kindly on the young fellow's\nshoulder.\n\n\"I shall not be here next Sunday, my boy,\" he said, \"and for this you\nmust not grieve. Now farewell to you all.\"\n\nAnd realising that he wished to be alone, they wrung his hand and went\nquietly away.\n\nAnd before the sun sank on the following evening the old man had gone,\nas he had predicted.\n\nThe three young men all felt saddened by their loss--Michael especially,\nthe more so when he saw Ysenda dissolved in tears, at the simple little\nfuneral. How he longed to have a right to comfort her!\n\nHodge and Giles, though not without good feeling and gratitude to their\nold uncle, were too excited at the prospect of trying to benefit by his\nstrange legacy, to give very much thought to mourning him.\n\n\"It's my turn first,\" said Hodge, \"and I mean to succeed. But I'm not\ngoing to talk about it. Just you, Giles, and you, Mike, leave me alone.\nI have my own ideas.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Giles, \"I'm not going to meddle.\"\n\n\"And as for me,\" said Michael, \"I've really scarce given the matter a\nthought.\"\n\nBoth noticed, however, that Hodge said nothing about their joining him\non Sunday at the usual hour, as they had naturally expected. The loss of\nthe one really good meal they had till now been sure of, was of\nconsequence to them, though they were not greedy. To Mike, just at\npresent, it mattered the most, for the poor fellow was denying himself\nin every way he could, so as to help Dame Martha with her grandchildren.\nYsenda was doing her utmost, but just now her father was in a far from\namiable humour, as she had again refused to accept a wealthy suitor, and\nto punish her the farmer was doling out even less money than his wont.\nSo several people whom this little story concerns were in rather low\nspirits--Paul and Mattie less so than their elders, for though it was\nall their grandmother could do to give them the plainest of food and by\nno means very much of that, her love made up for her poverty, and they\nwere at an age when hopefulness is easy.\n\nWell--the days passed till came the Sunday on which Hodge was to try the\nworking of the spell. He was up with the dawn, and instead of going to\nchurch as usual, spent the morning in scrubbing and scouring, till his\nkitchen shone like a new pin. For this was the idea that had come to him\nas the condition of success. Perfect cleanness! Peter's cottage had\nalways been a marvel of this; it was whispered that the brownies or some\nmysterious beings of the kind acted as his housemaids, and perhaps it\nwas so, for feeble and stiff as he was, it seemed impossible that he\nhimself could have kept the boards so spotless, the stove so polished,\nthe few pots and pans, which were of antique copper, so shining. And for\nall we know, the saying was a true one.\n\nNow Hodge was naturally a bit lazy, and his house by no means as well\ncared for as it might have been, and knowing this, it is scarcely to be\nwondered at that he hit upon this solution of the riddle. But he was not\nof course absolutely certain that it was correct, and for this reason,\nregardless of the probable disappointment to his companions, he let them\nunderstand that he did not expect them to be his guests.\n\n\"Another time I may invite them,\" he said to himself, \"but best not\nbegin by making a rule of it. Besides, if I fail I don't want them to\nsit here laughing at me. Not that there's much fear. The good people\ncan't but be pleased with the way I've scrubbed and tidied. And I don't\nobject to dining alone. I feel as if I could eat a whole capon to\nmyself, not to speak of the other toothsome things! And after dinner\nI'll be glad of a rest, for working as hard as I've been doing, makes\none ache.\"\n\nHe tidied up himself as well as his room, and then sat down to wait, the\nlittle bell in his hand. Twelve o'clock, a quarter past, then the\nhalf-hour, and at the moment, Hodge, having locked the door and closed\nthe shutters for fear of intrusion or interruption, began solemnly to\nrecite the incantation, which he had got well by heart, and as he\nuttered the last words \"prithee haste\" he lifted the silver toy and rang\nit vigorously, then sat listening with intensity.\n\nFor a moment or two he fancied he heard the whirring sound drawing\nnear, but no--it was the buzzing in his head from his nervousness, for,\nstolid as he was, he was strung up with mingled hopes and fears. He rang\nagain--no result; again he repeated the lines, half hoping he had not\nbeen quite accurate. No--they were as he had written them down and as he\nhad compared them with the copies taken by his cousins. All was correct.\nBut--nothing happened! And Hodge, slow and unemotional though he was,\nfelt ready to shed tears!\n\nThen he remembered that he was very hungry, and there was nothing but a\ncrust of dry bread and a scrap of cheese in the house, and on Sundays\nthere was no means of getting anything else. He had to be content,\ntherefore, and to make the best of his scanty fare, and then he lay down\non his bed and went to sleep and slept till it was dark, consoling\nhimself with the thought that as he had failed there was not much chance\nof either of the others succeeding, and when he awoke, being on the\nwhole a good-natured sort of fellow, he put his pride in his pocket and\nset off for Giles's, inspired partly, I dare say, by the hope of getting\nsomething to eat!\n\nHe found his two cousins supping together. Their fare was not luxurious\nnor abundant, but as he handed the bell to Giles and they saw his\ndowncast face they at once understood the state of things and invited\nhim to join them. He was glad enough to do so, and told them his story.\n\n\"And now, Giles,\" he ended, \"it's your turn. Though what you can do to\nplease the good people more than I did, I can't think.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you where you went wrong,\" said Giles. \"You should have\ninvited us too! There's something in numbers, you know--especially in\nthe number three. And we've always been together at the dinner. Anyway,\nI now ask you two to be here next Sunday at the usual time to see me try\nmy luck.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Hodge rather sheepishly.\n\n\"Thank you,\" repeated Michael half absently, for his thoughts were\nrunning on other things. Ysenda's face had looked very sad in church\nthat morning, and he fancied that Dame Martha and her charges were\ngrowing thinner and paler steadily.\n\n\"I'm certain they haven't enough to eat,\" he thought. \"Maybe Giles will\nhelp a bit, if he succeeds,\" but in his heart he doubted if either Giles\nor he himself would fare better than Hodge had done.\n\n\"Yet,\" he said to himself, \"Uncle Peter wasn't the sort to play a trick\non us. And we saw the magic with our own eyes! But I scarce dare hope\nthat we'll find the secret.\"\n\nSunday--the second Sunday--arrived in due time, and the three cousins\nmet as arranged at Giles's cottage. Hodge was feeling of two minds. In\none way he did not want Giles to succeed when he had failed; on the\nother hand, he greatly missed the excellent weekly dinner, and said to\nhimself that after all it would be better to enjoy it at his cousin's\nthan not to get it at all.\n\nGiles was awaiting them at his door, the little bell in his hand.\n\n\"Come along in,\" he said. \"Uncle Peter used to keep his guests waiting\noutside till it was all ready, but as we all saw the whole of it that\nlast day, I don't see that I need start it all alone. It makes one a bit\nshaky and nervous, you see.\"\n\nSo Hodge and Mike, by no means unwillingly, followed him into the\nkitchen. Hodge was as usual very hungry, and again rather excited in\nhopes of a good dinner. Michael seemed depressed. He didn't care whether\nhe was hungry or not; he was far from sanguine as to success for either\nGiles or himself; he missed his old uncle, and was rather in low\nspirits all round. Still of course he had no thought of refusing to take\npart in Giles's effort.\n\nThe three seated themselves, leaving the space for the table's hoped-for\nappearance. Giles held the bell in his hand, every now and then glancing\nat the old clock in the corner, of which he was the happy possessor.\n\n\"It doesn't keep such very good time,\" he said in a low voice, \"but I\nset it right this morning, so it can't be more than a moment or two\nslow.\"\n\nAnd then they waited till the long hand approached and slightly passed\nthe twenty-nine minutes to the fateful half-hour.\n\nGiles began to recite the charm, the two others listening. He said it\nquite correctly, then slowly raising the bell he rang it clearly. Utter\nsilence. Then--yes--the first whirring was heard, gradually growing\nlouder as it went on, till with the same sort of spring or swing the\nfloor opened and up came the table, the mysterious space closing again\nat once.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" exclaimed Giles, starting up, and even Michael's heart beat\nfaster with excitement. But Hodge, whose one thought was his dinner,\nHodge's red face grew paler and his expression darkened.\n\n\"Not so fast,\" he said; \"not much hurrahing about it.\" And then the\nothers saw what his greedy eyes had at once perceived. The table was, as\never, covered with a spotless cloth--three places were laid for, as far\nas plates and knives were concerned, but on each lay a small loaf of\nblack or brown bread and a wedge of cheese. That was all! No end dishes,\nno side ones--no centre with fruit--nothing but the plain everyday\nluncheon they were used to when at work in the fields, and none too much\nof it either, and as Hodge added, muttering, \"not even a glass of beer\"!\n\nThe three looked at each other. Giles and Mike began to laugh, as much\nat Hodge's angry disgust as at the thing itself.\n\n\"You've not hit it off, after all,\" said Michael to his host. \"Still,\nanything's better than nothing. I vote that we eat what there is,\" and\nhe cut a slice off his loaf. The others--Hodge very gloomily--did the\nsame and began to eat. The provisions were good of their kind.\n\n\"I wonder what I did wrong, or didn't do right,\" said Giles. \"At worst,\nHodge, I've got on better than you, and next Sunday maybe Michael will\nmanage best of all. Surely you'll get some hot potatoes at least, Mike?\"\n\n\"I don't think I'm going to try at all,\" said the youngest of the\ncousins.\n\n\"It's been a mean sort of lega----\" began Hodge.\n\nBut before he finished the word, Michael stopped him. \"You mustn't speak\nagainst Uncle Peter,\" he said. \"He did his best for us, of that I'm\nsure. The spell was not of his making. He had no power over it. He\ntaught us all he could. Strikes me we're not _good_ enough to succeed,\nsomehow. Think what he was! So contented and patient, and so unselfish!\nGiving away of the little he had, keeping scarce anything for himself.\"\n\n\"He was always sure of a good Sunday dinner, anyway,\" grumbled Hodge.\n\n\"And did he keep even that to himself?\" queried Michael.\n\nBy this time the table was cleared of the little it had offered. Giles\nstood up and held out the bell.\n\n\"We may as well send it back again,\" he said, ringing, as he spoke, and\nin a few moments the whole had disappeared as they had seen it do that\nlast Sunday at old Peter's.\n\nHodge walked off without speaking. Giles turned to Michael--he was still\nholding the little bell.\n\n\"Are you in earnest, Mike,\" he asked, \"about giving up your try? If so,\nwhat's to be done with this?\"\n\nHe waved the pretty thing in his hand as he spoke. Strange to say, it\ngave out no sound. The cousins looked at it curiously. The queer\nincident impressed them afresh, and Michael hesitated in his reply.\n\n\"There is no tricking of us in it,\" he murmured. Then he turned to\nGiles.\n\n\"You may as well give it to me,\" he said. \"I'll think it over and let\nyou know before next Sunday--and Hodge too, for that matter.\"\n\nA new idea had struck him and his face brightened. He would consult\nYsenda and abide by her advice, and in the meantime he carefully hid\naway the silver bell.\n\nFor two or three days to come he had no opportunity of meeting the\nfarmer's pretty daughter. But one evening when he had looked in at Dame\nMartha's to see how she and the orphans were getting on, he met Ysenda,\non her way thither. She was carrying a basket with what provisions she\nhad got leave to bring them. For she was too honest to give away\nanything belonging to her father without his permission. She stopped at\nonce, on seeing Mike, who doffed his hat.\n\n\"Good evening,\" she said, \"I am----\" but he interrupted her. \"Let me\ncarry that for you. It is heavy,\" he began, taking hold of the handle.\n\n\"I could wish it were heavier,\" she said, with a rather pitiful smile.\n\"I do what I can for the good dame and those dear children, but it isn't\nmuch.\"\n\n\"It's more than I do,\" said Michael regretfully.\n\n\"Don't say that,\" she replied eagerly. \"You give all you have to give.\nBut what irks me is the knowing I _should_ be able to do all needed for\nthe poor things, if only--my father----\" she stopped short. \"How are\nthey?\" she went on again. \"You have been there, I make sure?\"\n\nMichael blushed.\n\n\"They're fairly well,\" he said. \"It was only a bundle of fire-wood, and,\nand--some windfall apples I found--nothing to speak of. The\nboy--Paul--has had a bit of work this week. I spoke to our master for\nhim, but it's a slack time of year, you see.\"\n\nYsenda nodded. Michael had turned and was retracing his steps with her.\nFor a moment or two neither spoke. Then suddenly the young man looked\nat her, with a grave face.\n\n\"Ysenda,\" he said, \"I want your advice,\" and he went on hurriedly to\nrelate to her the experiences of the last two Sundays in his cousins'\ncottages. She listened attentively, but somewhat to his perplexity she\nseemed in no way surprised or discouraged by his story, for when he\nended by saying, \"Don't you think I'd best give it up? It doesn't seem\nmeant for the like of us. Uncle Peter didn't understand maybe that we're\nnot the same as him--we're too thick-skulled and dull, and not full of\nbenevolence and charity as he was. The good people don't care to bestow\ntheir benefits on common rough fellows like us,\" she replied quietly:\n\n\"No, Michael, I don't agree with you. You've got wrong notions. There's\na condition attached to the spell, which must be discovered by yourself.\nUncle Peter told you this plainly. He said nothing about success\ndepending on your being very clever, or learned in the ways he was, and\nhe knew none of you were. He knew the condition was one quite possible\nfor you to fulfil, but it had to be your own doing. Well--Hodge and\nGiles have failed--Giles less than Hodge----\"\n\n\"Because he wasn't such a selfish pig as Hodge,\" Michael interrupted,\n\"still----\"\n\nYsenda smiled.\n\n\"Still,\" she went on, \"a meal of bread and cheese isn't worth the\ntrouble. I agree with you. But I don't see why _you_ should not succeed,\nthough the others have failed.\"\n\n\"I don't know why I _should_!\" exclaimed he. \"I can think of nothing new\nto try, and it worries me. I keep dreaming about it night and day, till\nI want to throw it over and have done with it. I had a plan----\" but he\nhesitated.\n\n\"Tell me your plan,\" she urged.\n\n\"It was this. I thought maybe Hodge and Giles would forget the right\nwords or miss the time or do something stupid that I could see and guard\nagainst when my turn came, and if so I had planned how I'd invite the\npoor dame and her children to the Sunday feast--I'd have just bid them\ncome a few minutes before the time, the way uncle did with us--and when\nI'd got it all ready--steaming hot and all beautiful and tempting, I'd\nthrow open the door and show them in. My! just to think of it,\" and his\nblue eyes danced with pleasure.\n\nSo did Ysenda's pretty grey ones, but she kept her self-control.\n\n\"Well,\" she said gently, \"why shouldn't you carry out your plan?\"\n\n\"Ysenda!\" exclaimed Michael, \"how could I risk it after the failure of\nthe others? Supposing I had as good luck as Giles--and how can I be sure\nof even that?--a nice feast it would be to invite the poor things to--a\nlump of bread and a wedge of cheese! I'd be ashamed past words.\"\n\n\"You'd have a nice, dainty table, and no doubt, if the good people knew\nhow many guests you'd asked, they'd lay places for them all, as has\nalways been the case so far as I understand,\" said Ysenda. \"I'll tell\nyou what I'd do--I'll help you all I can--let's have some simple fare\nready to fall back upon if need be. I'm sure I can manage a joint of\ncold meat and some potatoes, which you can roast in readiness. Then when\nyou invite Dame Martha and the children just say it's really to take\n'pot-luck' with you, so they won't expect over much.\"\n\nMichael's face brightened.\n\n\"Thank you, Ysenda,\" he said, \"thank you a thousand times. You've\ncheered me greatly, and made me think I'd be a coward not to take my\nchance. So I'll do as you say. Maybe I can get some vegetables or fruit\nto help out the dinner. And I'll just invite them in an off-hand sort of\nway, as you advise. A case of 'pot-luck' it certainly will be, if there\nnever was one before!\" and he laughed quite heartily.\n\nThat very evening he invited the dame and her grandchildren, and the\nfirst time he met Hodge and Giles he told them of these expected guests.\nHodge was rather scornful about it, but Giles was more cheery.\n\n\"There's something in numbers,\" he maintained, \"and three's a lucky one.\nYou're the third to try, and you've invited three, besides us three\nourselves. And--\" he added, slapping his cousin on the shoulder as he\nspoke--\"why yes, Mike, old fellow, fate's smiling on you and no mistake!\nSunday's the third of the month, for sure!\"\n\nMichael's spirits rose still higher.\n\n\"Thank you, Giles,\" he said. \"Well, we'll know before long. And you two\nmustn't fail me. If we don't meet at church, I'll depend on you soon\nafter twelve o'clock on Sunday. Don't be late.\"\n\n\"No fear,\" said Giles, and Hodge, who was influenced by the others'\nhopefulness, felt his mouth already watering in anticipation of the\nexcellent fare, echoed \"no fear.\"\n\nAnd some quarter of an hour or so before the usual time the three were\nsettled in their places, Mike, bell in hand, all three pair of eyes\nglancing every minute or so at the clock. Now and then Michael's strayed\nto the cupboard in the corner, with a comfortable expression, for there,\nthanks to Ysenda and his own precautions, there was a good piece of meat\nand a few other odds and ends, sufficient for a plain though not very\nchoice or ample meal.\n\nAt last--and how very slowly do the hands of a clock seem to move, if\none is watching them!--at last the long needle approached the figure\n\"six\" at the bottom of the dial. Mike glanced at his companions.\n\n\"Now for it,\" he said, and for the life of him he could not prevent his\nvoice shaking a little. \"Here goes,\" and then pulling himself together\nhe repeated the rhyme of incantation in a firm clear voice:\n\n    \"Little table, fair to see,\n    Magic bell now summons thee.\n    Spread with viands good to taste,\n    Fairy table, prithee haste!\"\n\nand after a moment's pause he lifted the silver toy and rang it\ncheerily.\n\nThen--utter silence, save for Michael's drawing a deep breath or\ntwo--and--oh, joy! the whirring sounds began to be heard--no mistake\nabout it, as they grew louder and nearer. Giles chuckled as he\nwhispered, \"Some good honest bread and cheese, hey, Mike?\"\n\nBut he laughs best who wins!\n\nMichael made no reply. In another moment came the soft swing of the\ninvisible hinges--the floor opened, and up came the table. You could\nalmost have fancied that it or its burdens were laughing with pleasure,\nfor there was a merry clatter among the pretty china plates and\ndishes--so closely were they packed, so many were they, though as the\nwhole finally emerged and settled down as it were, the table seemed to\ngrow longer, till there was ample space for its six guests. Then the\nfloor closed, and all was quiet.\n\nNot so the three cousins.\n\n\"Hurrah in good earnest this time,\" cried Giles.\n\n\"Hush, my good fellow,\" said Michael, though his own face was by this\ntime one broad smile \"they'll have come, I'm sure. I must fetch them\nin,\" and he turned towards the door.\n\n\"Stay a moment,\" interrupted Hodge, who by this time was in high\nspirits, busily lifting the covers and examining the viands, \"stay, till\nI tell you what there is for dinner. The giver of the feast should know\nthe fare.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Michael, \"tell me quickly.\"\n\n\"There's a couple of ducks,\" replied Hodge, \"stuffed, and roasted to a\nturn. How good they smell! And apple sauce and mashed potatoes, and a\nplum-pudding--to be sure Christmas is not so very far off now--and a\nwhole pile of gingerbread snaps with whipped cream, and oranges galore,\nfor dessert. My word, but the brownies keep first-rate cooks and\ncaterers.\"\n\nMichael had opened the door before his hungry friend had left off\nspeaking, but he heard Hodge calling after him, \"Stop, stop, I've\nforgotten the pork pie. Oh, my goodness, such a beauty!\"\n\nIn another moment Michael had seized Dame Martha by the hand and was\nleading her into the cottage, followed by Paul and Mattie, looking very\nneat and clean in spite of their poor clothes, and in not a little\nexcitement at this visit to the kind young man who had been their first\nfriend in this strange land.\n\n\"I hope you've not been waiting long,\" said Mike.\n\n\"Oh no, thank you,\" the dame replied. \"Just a very few minutes. We heard\nthe church clock strike the half-hour as we drew near.\"\n\nThe door was wide open. Hodge and Giles greeted the new-comers heartily,\nHodge adding that they'd better set to at once, before the dishes got\ncold. But though Dame Martha had very good manners by nature and even by\nhabit, for in her better days she had been a much-respected upper\nservant in an excellent family, she could not restrain an exclamation of\nthe greatest astonishment when she caught sight of the wonderful display\nof good things, and perceived their appetising odour.\n\n\"My dear boy--Michael!\" she cried. \"What extravagance is this? And you\nsaid it would be just a simple meal--'pot-luck' you called it, if I\nremember right?\"\n\n\"And pot-luck it is,\" he replied, laughing. \"There's no reason that I\nknow of why pot-luck shouldn't be good fare, as I hope you will find our\ndinner to be.\"\n\nThere is no need to tell you how the feast was enjoyed. To begin with,\nit was flavoured not only with the \"best sauce\" of the old\nproverb--hunger--but also with the excellent additions of friendliness\nand gratitude and goodwill, and besides these even, there was a\nmysterious feeling of graciousness and prettiness over it all, which I\nam inclined to think must have been wafted with the viands from\nfairyland itself.\n\nNever had the children had such a treat, and being modest and unselfish\nand far from greedy they enjoyed it all the more, nor was there any\nnecessity for their grandmother to warn them not to eat too much.\n\nEvery one had enough--indeed Hodge's appetite seemed equal to that of\ntwo ordinary people--but yet when all had replied, \"No thank you,\nnothing more,\" to Michael's hospitable offers, the dishes looked by no\nmeans empty, and though he made the children carry off a couple of\noranges each, for a little Sunday treat at home, the pile of fruit\nscarcely appeared to have been touched. The thought did cross Michael's\nhead that he wished he could keep the remains of the feast in his\nlarder. But \"No,\" he decided, \"it would be greedy and might displease\nthe fairies.\"\n\nSo when the dame and her grandchildren, with many and many expressions\nof gratitude, took their leave--though, by the bye, I must not forget to\ntell you that what brought the poor things' pleasure to the _highest_\nheight was Michael's telling them that he would expect them at the same\nhour and in the same way the following Sunday, \"and every Sunday, so\nlong as my pot-luck continues to suit you,\" he added--well then, as soon\nas the three had left he re-entered the cottage with his cousins and\ncarefully closing the door, rang the fairy bell for the invisible\nattendants to remove the table.\n\nIt disappeared as it had come, obediently to his summons. Then Hodge and\nGiles turned to him.\n\n\"The luck's with you, Mike, no doubt about it,\" they said, but without\nany ill-will, it must be allowed.\n\n\"Let's count it as belonging to us all,\" said hospitable Michael. \"It\nshall be a fixed rule that you two dine with me every Sunday, same as\nto-day. And as long as the good people favour us as they've done this\ntime, the least _we_ can do is to let those who are less well off than\nwe, share in our prosperity. I've a feeling that it's what old Uncle\nPeter would wish.\"\n\n\"That's why you mean to have the dame and her boy and girl every\nSunday?\" said Hodge. \"Well, for my part I wouldn't take upon me to\nobject. They're nice-mannered children, and the dame's an old friend.\nAnd there was enough and to spare.\"\n\nGiles was looking very thoughtful.\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" he exclaimed. \"It's the right thing to do, and, as you\nsay, it's following after our kind old godfather. I say, Mike,\" he went\non, \"maybe--I shouldn't be very surprised if that's how you've hit the\nnail on the head--eh, what do you think of that?\"\n\nMichael stared. Such an idea had never occurred to him, and indeed he\nscarcely understood what Giles meant. He thought of it afterwards,\nhowever.\n\nThen his cousins left him, and he began to wish he could manage to see\nYsenda to tell her the good news.\n\n\"She'll be as pleased as I am myself,\" he thought, \"as pleased as if the\ngood luck had been her own. And after all, it's thanks to her I\npersevered. By the bye, I wonder what I should do with that nice piece\nof meat she brought me, to fall back upon in case of need. I shouldn't\nkeep it--maybe she'd like me to take it to the dame. I'll just have a\nlook at it.\"\n\nHe turned to the cupboard--it was a sort of larder with a wired opening\nto the fresh air, which he had arranged himself, for he was very\nneat-handed. But when he drew back the door, he started with surprise.\nHe could scarcely believe his eyes, and rubbed them hard to make sure he\nwas not dreaming! For there, neatly placed on the shelves, was not only\nkind Ysenda's gift, but all the remains of the dinner--cold duck, pork\npie, plum-pudding, sauces, vegetables, fruit! almost as tempting a sight\nas had been the viands on their first appearance, so daintily were they\nall arranged, so clean and bright were the china and glass.\n\nMichael really laughed with pleasure.\n\n\"If only I could tell Ysenda,\" he said aloud.\n\nThe opportunity for so doing was coming nearer, though he knew it not.\n\nOn their way home Dame Martha and the children met the farmer and his\ndaughter. Ysenda stopped to speak to them, and her father, who happened\nto be in a very good humour, as he had made excellent terms for the sale\nof his numerous stacks of hay, accosted the old woman kindly enough,\nthough he had been one of those who had called her very foolish for\naccepting the charge of the penniless orphans.\n\n\"Well, dame,\" he began, \"and how goes the world with you?\" and almost\nbefore Ysenda heard the first words of her reply, the young girl\nguessed, what indeed she was already sure of, that Michael's trial of\nthe magic spell had succeeded--so bright and happy looked the dame, so\nbursting with joyful excitement were Paul and Mattie.\n\n\"Oh, I am all of a tremble with thankfulness,\" replied Martha. \"Such a\nfeast as we have had! Never was there a kinder host than young\nMichael----\"\n\n\"And, and,\" interrupted the children, forgetting their shyness, \"we're\nto have dinner with him every Sunday--just fancy that! And see what\nwe've got to take home for a treat,\" and they held out the beautiful\noranges.\n\n\"I _am_ pleased----\" began Ysenda, but her father interrupted her.\n\n\"Young Michael, did you say,\" he inquired, turning to the dame, \"young\n_Michael_! How comes it that he can afford to give feasts? I thought it\nwas all he could do to keep himself--not to speak of feasting.\"\n\n\"And a real feast it was,\" said Martha, \"roast ducks, and pies,\nand----\"\n\n\"Plum-pudding, and these oranges and apples,\" the children went on. \"And\nevery Sunday, sir, every Sunday it's to be the same--dinner with him.\"\n\n\"Glad to hear it,\" said the farmer, rather shortly.\n\nThen with a nod of farewell, and a sweet smile from his daughter, the\ntwo walked on.\n\nFor a few moments neither spoke. They were near their own home by this\ntime. Suddenly the farmer exclaimed:\n\n\"Queer business this seems of young Michael's. He's a steady,\nhard-working fellow, but none too well-off. Maybe old Peter left him\nsomething after all--unbeknown to any one?\"\n\nHe did not exactly ask the question of Ysenda, but he looked at her as\nhe spoke. He knew how very friendly she had been with the old man. She\nsmiled, and her pretty eyes lighted up.\n\n\"Maybe,\" was all she said.\n\nBut an hour or two later, when her father had finished smoking his\nSunday afternoon pipe, he called her.\n\n\"Ysenda,\" he said,--he was sitting in the porch, for the day was mild\nfor the time of year,--\"Ysenda, I'm thinking about that young\nfellow--Michael.\"\n\n\"Yes, father?\" she said questioningly.\n\n\"You know that old Thomas is leaving us.\" Thomas was the farmer's head\nman. \"He's getting past work, and he's got some tidy savings put by. He\nwon't be badly off. I'm not sorry. I'd like some one younger and sharper\nabout the place, though I'd scarce have found it in my heart to dismiss\nhim. But he wants to go. I've been casting about for a new man. I wonder\nhow Michael would do.\"\n\n\"Was it what you heard this afternoon that's made you think of him?\" the\ngirl asked, straight-forwardly.\n\nThe farmer seemed a little taken aback.\n\n\"Well--not exactly. But you see,\" he replied, \"if so be that old Peter\ndid leave him something, well then, Peter was a wise man, a very wise\nman--it shows he thought highly of the young fellow, and if he was to\ncome to me instead of Thomas, I'd as lief as not that he had a something\nof his own. It would give him a better position over the others, you\nsee.\"\n\nFrom her father's practical point of view, Ysenda did \"see\"; and when he\nwent on to propose that they should stroll round by Michael's cottage\nfor their evening walk, \"just to have a look at things,\" she made no\nobjection.\n\n\"We might say we heard of his kindness to the dame, and ask about her\nand how she's getting on,\" added the farmer.\n\nSo Michael, sitting ruminating by the fire, was not a little surprised\nwhen, on opening the door in answer to a knock, he was confronted by the\ntwo visitors.\n\n\"We thought we'd look in to--to congratulate you on your--your kindness\nto our old friend and her grandchildren,\" the farmer began, very\namiably. \"We've heard all about it from them, you must know.\"\n\nMichael's sunburnt face had grown very red, first with the delight of\nseeing Ysenda, and then by the startling word \"congratulate.\" For he\nknew that the secret confided to him and his cousins would be of no\nvalue if it were made known to others, so that Peter had trusted to them\nto keep it faithfully.\n\nYsenda seemed to guess his alarm, and with a smile and a whisper she\nreassured him, even before her father had finished speaking.\n\n\"It is all right,\" she said. \"I know you have won\"; and later on, she\nadded, \"It is what Peter hoped and wished for.\"\n\nSo nothing was wanting to Michael's satisfaction. He begged his visitors\nto honour him by staying to supper, and when the farmer saw the good\nfare so quickly and neatly laid before them, his opinion of Michael,\nneedless to say, rose still higher, and before he took leave of the\nyoung man he had hinted at the proposal he was thinking of.\n\nThis was the beginning of a happy life for Mike. He became the farmer's\nright hand, and before long his son-in-law. Nor in his prosperity did\nMichael ever forget his old friends. Never a Sunday passed without his\ncousins and his poorer neighbours--Martha and her grandchildren--being\nhis guests. Never, therefore, did the \"good people\" fail to respond to\nhis summons.\n\nAnd even before Ysenda became the hostess on these occasions, she felt\nthat she might reveal to him the secret of the condition which in his\ngenerosity he had unconsciously fulfilled.\n\n\"Peter told me what it was,\" she said. \"The magic feast is only bestowed\non him who invites as his guests those poorer than himself. But had you\nknown this, the charm would have been lost. Your motive was pure\nkindness--free from all selfishness, therefore you succeeded where\nHodge and even Giles, good-natured though he is, failed!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Your motive was pure kindness--free from all\nselfishness, therefore you succeeded.\"]\n\n\"All the same, sweetheart,\" said Michael, \"I feel that I owe my happy\nfortune to _you_, as well as to dear old Peter and to the 'good people'\nthemselves. May I always have a grateful heart and remember those whose\nlives are less favoured than mine.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Weather Maiden\n\n\nOnce upon a time--it does not matter if it was a long ago \"once,\" or not\na long ago one; it does not matter what country it was in, whether far\noff or near at hand--it was just a \"once upon a time,\" somewhere and\nsomewhen--a little girl sat crying quietly but very sadly, all by\nherself in a queer room which I will describe. But first I must tell you\nthat she was not crying from temper, or from having been naughty and now\nbeing sorry, no, she was just crying because she was lonely and unloved\nand in a sense friendless. And it had not always been so with her. Some\nyears ago--to her they seemed many, for she was only twelve, but in\nreality they were but few--she had had kind parents, father and mother\nboth, who loved their only child very dearly, though she was not a very\npretty or \"taking\" little girl. She was small for her age and more\nthoughtful than clever or amusing. And now that the dear ones whom she\nbelonged to were gone, and her only home as an orphan, and a poor\norphan, was with cousins, who, though good worthy people, had adopted\nher out of duty and did not understand the shy silent child, or care to\ndo so, it is not to be wondered at that she grew shyer and silenter and\noften seemed what she was really far from being, stupid and slow and\neven sullen.\n\nHer new home--though \"new\" it no longer was to her, for it was now\nnearly four years since Farmer Mac, as we will call him, had brought her\nback with him from the desolate house where she had been so happy and\ncared for since her birth--this new home was a large rambling old\nfarm-house. A busy beehive of a place, cheerful enough to its owners and\ntheir sons, who were strong and active and hard-working from morning to\nnight, but to Merran a sort of incessant worry and bustle, of loud\nvoices and hurrying steps and noisy laughter, or noisier scolding, not\nreally as cross or angry as it sounded, but startling to her sensitive\nnerves and childish timidity. So she grew duller and slower and thinner\nand whiter, till at last those about her began to say she was in a\n\"dwine,\" and \"maybe all for the best if so it were, for--\" and at this,\nvoices were lowered--\"it's plain to see the child's 'not all there.'\"\n\nAnd her aunt, as she had been told to call the farmer's wife, a strong\nhearty woman, who had done and meant to do her best for the little\nmaiden, grew tired of worrying about her, and trying to feed her up and\nturn her into the sort of girl a daughter of her own would have been.\nMerran did her no credit, and the mixture of shame and pity Dame Mac\ncame to feel about her gradually grew into a kind of constant,\nhalf-repressed irritation. She made her work, which of course was right,\nthe child would have pined and \"dwined\" still more had she been left\nalone to do nothing but creep about and dream in corners, but the worst\nof it was that what Merran did, or tried to do, seldom pleased her aunt.\nAs often as not, after telling her to sweep or dust, the dame would\nsnatch the cloths or brush out of her hand, crying that she'd rather do\nit all herself than see the girl's feckless ways of going about the\nwork.\n\nThis had happened the day that this story begins. Merran had had an even\nworse scolding than usual, and though she set her face hard and said not\na word in self-defence, when she got upstairs to the hiding-place where\nfirst we see her, she let her tears burst out and sobbed and wept to her\nheart's content.\n\nThere was a special reason for her aunt's vexation with her that\nmorning. Merran had had a soaking in the rain the day before, when she\nhad gone out without an umbrella and with the clean, freshly starched\nand ironed frock on, which should have lasted her the whole week, as\nyesterday had been Monday. Now it was not only limp and draggled but on\none side a mass of mud, for in her hurry to get home the child had\nslipped in the lane, always a rather watery one from the overhanging\ntrees and want of sun, and fallen at full length, so of course there was\nnothing for it but to have the unlucky garment returned to the\nwash-house six days before it was due there, and as a punishment Merran\nwas now arrayed in an old stuff skirt, too short for her, which she\nparticularly disliked, and a kind of loose jacket or bed-gown once her\naunt's, in which, it must be allowed, she did look rather a figure of\nfun, something like a very shabby Dutch doll.\n\n\"And Dirk will see me like this,\" she said to herself, \"after the long\ntime he's been away. He will think me so ugly and untidy, and he's the\nonly person in the world who cares for me at all,\" and at these\nthoughts her sobs redoubled.\n\nDirk was the youngest of the farmer's five sons, the youngest but by no\nmeans the favourite or the spoilt one, as a youngest is generally\nsupposed to be. He was not as strong or fine a fellow as his brothers;\nindeed as a baby he had been so puny and delicate that his mother was\nhalf ashamed to let him be seen for fear of its being said or hinted\nthat he was a changeling. There was some reason for this, as the first\nfew months of his life had been spent in much wailing and crying, poor\nlittle chap. And even when he got over this stage and grew into boyhood,\nhis position in the family was rather a Cinderella-like one. Yet to\nthose who took the trouble to notice and encourage him, he quickly\nshowed himself to be a sweet-tempered, cheerful and intelligent child.\nSo by degrees things had improved for him, and now when he was expected\nhome from a long sea-voyage on which he had been sent to strengthen him\nafter growing too fast, his relations were ready to welcome him back\nwith heartiness.\n\nHe was four years older than Merran, so when she first came to the farm\nhe was only a boy of eleven or twelve, sorry for the orphan, and in his\nawkward way very kind to her. So naturally she turned to him\ngratefully. But now he had been absent so long that she felt shy at the\nthought of meeting him again.\n\n\"He'll be big and strong like the others now,\" she said to herself;\n\"he'll not think me worth speaking to, looking like a beggar-girl as I\ndo. Oh, oh, I wish I could die! I wish it wasn't wrong to wish I could\ndie! I wish I could fly away somewhere, quite, quite away. Everybody\ndislikes me--even the doll-woman up there in the rain-house seems to be\nlaughing at me, 'cos I'm so ugly and stupid.\"\n\nWhat she called the \"rain-house\" was one of those old-fashioned toy\nbarometers, or weather-tellers, now so seldom seen. It had been\ndiscarded long ago, as broken and out of order, years before Merran had\ncome to the farm. She had never seen it except up on a high shelf in the\ngarret, standing among other old things, broken or chipped or useless,\nand yet which Dame Mac, if ever she remembered them, had not the time to\nsort or look over. Possibly too, unsentimental as she was, there were\ncertain objects among the \"rubbish\" which she had not found it in her\nheart to burn or throw away.\n\nThis, the garret, was the queer room which I said I would describe. It\nwas large, as it covered a good part of the first story of the\nfarm-house, which was a long, rather low building, and only one end of\nthis second floor had been plastered and boarded and turned into\nhabitable rooms. And these, where some of the younger sons and\nfarm-servants slept, had a separate staircase; the garret was approached\nby a ladder-like flight of steps leading to nowhere else. So Merran had\nlong ago appropriated it as a place of refuge for herself when her head\nached, or her cousins had been teasing her, or her aunt scolding. She\ngrew to love it dearly. There were queer corners where she could hide;\nthere were one or two small unglazed storm-windows, in whose eaves the\nswallows built, and from which she had a wide view of the country, in\nits own way a beautiful part of the world, for though flat and what some\ncall \"tame,\" it was well wooded--the trees in summer and autumn, even in\nearly spring, when the first tender greens began to shimmer and sparkle,\nwere a sight to be seen, so lofty and spreading were they. And not very\nfar off, though too far to be perceived from the lower windows, was a\nsilvery glimmer which Merran knew was the sea.\n\nShe knew by heart every inch of the place and everything it contained.\nShe made up stories to herself about the old pieces of furniture--quaint\nchairs short of a leg or two, a tumble-down chest of drawers, with a\nmarble top, which must, in the far past, have stood in a handsome,\nperhaps in a beautiful, room; a cracked and blackened mirror or two; a\npathetic old cradle on rockers, which seemed asking for a baby to nurse.\nMerran talked to and pitied them all; sometimes even she sang in her\nvery thin tiny voice to the cradle, \"just to make it think it's not\nempty,\" she would say to herself as a sort of excuse.\n\nAmong the things on the shelf, nothing interested her much except the\n\"rain-house.\" She had never been able to examine it, for it was too high\nup for her to reach, and there was nothing in the shape of a ladder in\nthe garret. Now and then she had thought of climbing up by the help of\nsome of the chairs, but they were all too rickety to be of any use. So\nshe contented herself with fancies about the queer little cottage with\nits two doors, out of one of which the woman could be seen peeping--the\nman never appeared, and Merran used to picture to herself that perhaps\nthere was a pretty fairy garden behind the house, in which he was always\nbusy working, while his wife kept everything neat and clean inside and\ncooked the dinner, pretending that the little woman only looked out now\nand then just to wish her--Merran--good-morning.\n\nBut to-day she was too unhappy to have cheerful fancies about anything\nat all, and she even felt vexed with the doll, imagining that its face\nwas laughing at her as she sat there crying, and as she gazed up at it\nthe fancy increased till she began to feel quite angry.\n\n\"You'd cry too, if you were me,\" she said at last. \"You are up there\nquite safe and snug--nobody to scold you, or order you about. _You're_\nnot forced to wear ugly dirty old clothes 'cos you got caught in the\nrain--no, of course, you never come out in the rain. I wish I lived in a\ncountry where it was always dry and clean, instead of muddy and wet.\"\n\nThere was some excuse for this wish. For though it was not a hilly part\nof the world--and one generally imagines that it is in mountainous\ndistricts that the weather is the most uncertain--the country where the\nfarm-house, now Merran's home, stood, was extraordinarily trying in this\nrespect. It was very fertile, as it was well watered, but changeable\npast description, quite enough to try the farmers' tempers, not to speak\nof little girls'. Never, for two days together, could even the oldest\ninhabitants, naturally supposed to be the most weather-wise, prophesy\nwith any security what was coming. Barometer after barometer proved all\nbut useless. I believe it was in a fit of irritation that Farmer Mac had\nknocked over the old \"rain-house,\" and broken it, because he imagined\n\"the pair who tell the weather\" had misled him. They had not done so, as\nyou will hear, and it would have been better for him if he had not\ntreated them as he did. But of this Merran knew nothing.\n\n\"Yes,\" she repeated angrily, for it seemed to her that the figure had\nmoved forward a little and was really looking down at her as if it were\nalive, \"yes,\" she said, \"_you_ wouldn't like it, I can tell you, so you\nneedn't stare at me so. If only I could get up to you, I'd tell you\nthings that would make even you, a silly wooden doll, sorry for me.\"\n\nTo her amazement, a voice replied to her.\n\n\"Close your eyes,\" it said, and even if Merran had felt inclined to\ndisobey, I doubt if she could have done so. \"Hold out your\nhands--upwards,\" it went on, and then the child became aware that\nwhoever it was that spoke was somewhere above her, and again she\nobeyed, stretching up her hands as far as she could reach. Then for a\nthird time came a command. \"Spring,\" said the voice, \"spring, high, into\nthe air. Yes, that is right,\" and as she gave the leap upwards, instead\nof at once dropping down again as one naturally would, she felt her\nfingers grasped, gently but firmly, and in another moment her feet\ntouched ground again, and the same voice now said gently, \"Good girl.\nNow, Merran, you may look about you.\"\n\nYou may be sure she lost no time in availing herself of the permission.\nBut--just at first, she did not feel sure that her eyes were not somehow\nor other playing her a trick. What she saw, the place where she found\nherself, seemed so strange; still more so the person who, still holding\nher by the hands, was looking down at her, smiling.\n\n\"Who are you?\" said Merran, drawing away a little, for she felt half\nfrightened.\n\n\"Don't you know? Look at me well--you have often done so, though you\nnever saw me so plainly before.\"\n\nIt was the same voice, and though sweet and gentle it had to be obeyed.\nSo Merran looked at her, and gradually she began to understand, though\nvaguely.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I seem to know your face, and your dress,\nand--and--but yet you can't be the figure in the rain-house. You are so\npretty, so very pretty, and even your dress--oh what lovely stuff it's\nmade of.\"\n\nAnd so it was. The \"doll-woman,\" as Merran had called her, was attired\nin a short, queerly spotted red skirt, with a white jacket--only painted\nwood, of course, to mortal eyes--and a kind of kerchief on her head. Now\nthe skirt had changed into fine, rose-coloured silky stuff, beautifully\nembroidered all over with tiny daisies; the hard stiff upper dress was\nof snowy, delicate muslin, such as Merran had never before seen or\ndreamt of; the head-gear a gauzy scarf of golden tissue; the little feet\nwere shod with slippers of the same lovely red as the skirt, gleaming\nagainst the whitest and finest of stockings.\n\n\"Oh,\" exclaimed Merran again, \"how pretty, oh how _very_ pretty you are;\nyour dress too! I can't believe you're the doll-woman. I didn't think\nher at all pretty, and yet----\" she felt too puzzled to explain, and no\nwonder, for the face still smiling at her was so very charming. Blue\neyes like forget-me-nots; cheeks like delicate blush roses; lovely\nbright brown hair, some ends of which came straying out of the graceful\nhead-dress, and above all such a sweet and kindly expression!\n\n\"Yet,\" said the fairy lady, for that this she was the little girl began\nto feel sure, \"yet, Merran, your idea is right. I am the same, and this\nplace where you are standing is what you have called the 'rain-house.'\nLook about you--this is only the entrance--and then I will take you\ninside and you shall see my husband, who will welcome you as I do. We\nhave expected you for a long time, but till you spoke to me in your\ntrouble I had no power to bid you come.\"\n\nThen Merran turned and gazed around her, and strange as it had seemed at\nfirst, she began to recognise the roughened walls, the branches wreathed\nround the porch with its two open doorways, even the flooring on which\nshe stood, painted to look like tiles.\n\n\"Yes,\" she exclaimed, \"it _is_ like the rain-house, as much as I could\nsee of it. But--\" and then for the first time a new perplexity struck\nher, \"if it really is it,\" she asked, \"how can I be in it? How can I be\nlittler even than you? Why I could have held you in my hand when I was\ndown in the garret, if I could have got you? Have you grown big, or\nhave I grown tiny?\"\n\nThe Sunshine fairy--we can call her by her name now--laughed, and oh how\npretty her laugh was!\n\n\"My dear Merran,\" she said, \"it doesn't matter. Perhaps, however, it is\nless confusing for you to think you have grown tiny. But I needn't\npuzzle you if you understand that to all intents and purposes you are in\nfairyland--as much there as it is well for a mortal child to be. Your\nold rain-house is one of its entrances. Come now, and you shall see\nmore.\"\n\nShe opened a door in the back of the hut--or what seemed the back--and\nled Merran through. The little girl gave a cry of pleasure. They were\nstanding in the prettiest room you could imagine. It was all brightness\nand cosiness, the chairs and tables of white wood, the carpet like green\nmoss, the walls hung with soft pink silk, and above all the\n\"window-doors,\" as Merran called them to herself, opened on to--surely\nthe loveliest garden that ever was seen, \"out of fairyland\" I was going\nto say, forgetting that it was, if not fairyland itself, just at the\nentrance to it. It did not seem a very large garden, or rather one could\nnot quite tell how far it extended, for at the farther end it sloped\ndown rather suddenly and beyond, a great thicket of beautiful trees and\nbushes gave a misty, vague appearance, through which Merran only caught\nsight of gleams of sky and sunshine--almost, she fancied, of blue hills\nfar in the distance.\n\n\"That must be the real fairyland,\" she thought. But she did not feel\nmuch curiosity about it; the pretty room and lovely garden were too full\nof delight. And as she gazed, another object attracted her. This was a\nfountain in the centre of one of the velvety lawns. She had never seen a\nfountain before, but she was a clever child in her own way, and she\nremembered pictures which she had seen, of which the dancing silvery\ndrops reminded her.\n\n\"Is that a--a waterfall?\" she asked.\n\nThe fairy lady shook her head.\n\n\"Not exactly,\" she replied, \"though for a little girl like you it is a\nvery good guess. No, it is the fountain by which we know about the rain\nand showers. We send messages far and wide by its means. You could not\nunderstand if I explained. But we work very hard. Fairy folk are not\nidle, as some foolish mortals imagine. See--my husband is coming to\nspeak to you. He and I work together, though behind there in your world\npeople fancy we don't! Rain without sunshine, or sunshine without rain,\nwould make a sad state of things.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said a merry voice, and from behind the mist and dazzle\nof the fountain Merran perceived a new-comer--a man with a nice brown\nface, dressed something like a charming old china figure which her aunt\ngreatly treasured--brown velvet jacket and breeches, flowered waistcoat,\na scarlet cap on his short curls--altogether quite the right sort of\nperson to match the lovely Sunshine fairy.\n\nHe doffed his cap as he came forward, Merran gazing at him in surprise.\nShe would much have liked to ask him how ever he managed to keep so\nbeautifully clean and smart if he was always working away at the water,\nbut she felt rather shy, and only gazed.\n\n\"So you have come at last, little maiden,\" he said pleasantly. \"We have\nbeen waiting here a good while for you.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"So you have come at last, little maiden.\"]\n\nMerran felt greatly astonished and puzzled.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Sunshine fairy, \"our queen knows all about you. She\nalways cares for lonely or unhappy children more than for any others,\nthough they may not be aware of it. And she told us to stay here till\nthe time came for us to be of service to you, poor little Merran. Not\nthat it matters much to us where we live. Rain and I can do our work\nwherever we are, and move our abode in less time than it would take you\nto run downstairs.\"\n\n\"I wish you would stay here always and let me come and live with you,\"\npleaded Merran. \"Nobody cares for me down there,\" and she nodded towards\nwhere she supposed the farm must be. \"Couldn't you--couldn't your queen\nturn me into a fairy for good? I shouldn't ever want to be a real little\ngirl again, and nobody would mind. They'd just think I'd got\nlost--they'd never imagine I'd gone to fairyland.\"\n\n\"Would nobody mind--would nobody miss you?\" the Sunshine fairy asked\ngently.\n\nMerran's eager face fell. She hesitated.\n\n\"P'r'aps Dirk would have minded once, before he went away,\" she said\nruefully. \"But not now--oh no--they say he's grown so fine and strong\nlike the others. He won't care for me any more, I'm sure. That's another\nreason why I wish you'd let me stay with you and never go back to the\nfarm again. Aunt says I grow stupider and stupider, and uglier too, I\ndaresay she thinks, though she doesn't exactly say so. And just look at\nme\"--she held out her shabby old skirt as she spoke--\"this horrid dress\nis only fit for a beggar girl, and I'll have to wear it all the week,\nthough it wasn't my fault that I dirtied my nice clean one. The lane was\nso slippery, and so muddy. It had been raining so hard.\"\n\nThe Sunshine fairy smiled.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"but you don't know what it would be like in your\ncountry if it didn't rain a good deal.\"\n\n\"I know it has to, of course,\" said Merran, \"but if only we knew better,\neverything would be easier. Uncle Mac often says there never was such\nchangeable weather as we have. I don't believe he'd be so cross and\nsurly if he wasn't always worrying about what the sky's like and what\nit's going to do. And if _I_ knew, I'd take care not to go out without\nan umbrella, if it was going to be wet, nor along that muddy lane.\"\n\nThe Rain fairy had gone back to the fountain while Merran was speaking,\nand by this time she had quite lost all feelings of shyness with the\npretty Sunshine lady. Just then the sound of the rushing water stopped\nsuddenly. The fairy looked up and called out. The words seemed strange,\nand Merran could not understand them, nor the reply which came back. But\nSunshine turned to her.\n\n\"You will find bright weather on your return,\" she said, \"and I promise\nyou a pleasant surprise as well. So do not be low-spirited, little\nMerran. You have been watched over in ways you know not of, and you may\ncheer up from now.\"\n\nBut it was difficult for the child to believe this all at once.\n\n\"Oh mayn't I stay with you, dear kind fairy?\" she pleaded again. \"It\nwouldn't matter to me how the time passed. I shouldn't be like little\nBridget, who found her friends all gone, for you see I should never want\nto go back at all. Oh do let me stay. Can't you turn me into a fairy\naltogether?\" she repeated. \"I'd be your servant or anything you like.\"\n\nStill Sunshine shook her head.\n\n\"No, my little maiden,\" she replied. \"What you ask is impossible. You\ncan never become one of us--a human child you are, a woman you must\nbefore long become. But a happy woman you may be, and to help you to be\nhappy is the task that has been appointed to us. Long ago, but for love\nand pity for you, the old rain-house, as you call it, would have fallen\nto pieces, and we should have deserted the farm altogether, as indeed\nits master deserved after his treatment of us. He has been punished for\nit, however, and now by your means great and unusual good fortune may be\nbefore him and his. And this I will now explain to you, but on one\ncondition.\"\n\nMerran felt a little frightened.\n\n\"Is it something very difficult that I have to do?\" she asked timidly.\n\nThe Sunshine lady shook her head.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" she replied. \"It is simply to keep carefully two gifts\nwhich we have prepared for you, and to use them as I will describe.\nBut--there is the condition.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" said Merran eagerly. \"I'm sure you wouldn't want me to do\nanything wrong, or to promise anything I can't be sure of being able\nfor, so I do promise now, this very minute, even before you tell me.\"\n\nShe was rewarded by a smile.\n\n\"You do right to trust me,\" said the fairy. \"All I bind you to is\nthis--to tell no one of the magic gifts, to keep your possession of them\na complete secret, until----\"\n\n\"Till when?\" Merran interrupted.\n\n\"Till you are grown up, and only then if you marry and love your husband\ndearly. For I know that without complete confidence, little rifts are\nsadly apt to come between even those who love each other most truly.\"\n\n\"I don't think I'll ever marry,\" said the poor little maiden. \"I'm too\nugly and stupid. But still, if ever I did, I know I'd love my husband,\n'cos you see it would be so kind of him to love _me_. And then it would\nbe nice to tell him the secret, if it would do him good too. Oh I do\nwonder what it is you're going to give me!\"\n\nFairy Sunshine slipped her hand into the front of her bodice and drew\nout something. At the same moment the Rain brownie, or gnome--no, he was\ntoo handsome to be a gnome--or whatever you like to call him, came\nforward again, and he too was holding something. Together the pair\npresented their gifts, and Merran gave a little cry of delight as she\nsaw what they were. One was a tiny umbrella, a real umbrella, not a sham\ntoy one, or a gold or silver \"charm,\" such as ladies hang by their\nwatch-chains, no, a real, exquisitely made and finished umbrella of\ngreen silk and with a beautifully carved ivory handle.\n\n\"I have made it myself,\" said the Rain man. \"It will never wear out and\nnever lose its power, unless you forget your promise.\"\n\n\"And for my gift I say the same,\" echoed Fairy Sunshine. Hers was even\nprettier, for it was a parasol, smaller of course than the umbrella, but\njust as beautifully perfect--of rose-coloured gauze, lined with white,\nand the handle was in the form of a daisy, of silver and enamel.\n\nMerran was silent with pleasure and admiration.\n\n\"Oh thank you, thank you,\" she was beginning, but the fairy stopped her.\n\"Wait a moment,\" she said, \"wait till you learn the real value of these\ntwo things. They are not merely pretty toys. It would be foolish to give\nthem to you if they were nothing better than that. But they are much\nbetter. We have endowed them with fairy power. See here--if you want to\nknow what the weather is going to be, you must test them--by yourself,\nof course, and when no one can see you, for magic gifts belong to their\nowner alone. You must test by trying to open them. If the umbrella\nrefuses to spread itself, you will know that it is not going to rain. If\nso, turn to the parasol. If it opens quite widely you may count on\nplenty of sunshine; if only partly, then though the day will be dry, it\nwill not be very bright. But you must be gentle; it would be useless to\ntry to force either of them, for then they would break and you would\nhave lost them for ever.\"\n\nMerran's eyes were gleaming with delight.\n\n\"I will be very gentle, I promise you. Oh it will be splendid always to\nknow about the weather, and uncle and all of them will never again think\nme stupid or useless if they find I can foretell it. It will make them\nmuch nicer to me, won't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied her friend. \"That is the reason of our giving you this\nsecret power. But I must tell you a little more. You must not only be\ngentle in touch, you must have gentle feelings in your heart, otherwise\nyou will fail. Neither umbrella nor parasol will open if you apply to\nthem with any unkind feeling or wish. For instance, if the farmer or his\nsons have been sharp or rough to you and you wish it _would_ rain just\nto vex them, it would be no good at all for you to try to open\neither--and if your aunt has been cross to you some very hot day----\"\n\n\"She often is when it is very hot,\" interrupted Merran. \"More than when\nit's cold. She gets headaches in summer.\"\n\n\"Just so--then if you take hold of the parasol with a secret hope that\nthe sun is going to blaze away all day, without any cooling summer rain,\nso that the dame will be punished for scolding you--no--it would be no\ngood at all! Inside your heart must be the _hope_ that the wishes of\nothers shall be fulfilled, whether it come to pass or not; otherwise all\nthe magic will be gone for the time,\" and at this Merran looked grave,\nvery grave, for she had known what it was to long for power to annoy\nothers. But the fairy's next words cheered her. \"I don't think there is\nmuch fear of your having those unkind feelings,\" she said. \"I know that\nyou are going to be a much happier little girl than ever before, and\nremember to begin with, I have promised you a pleasant surprise when you\ngo home to-day.\"\n\n\"I wonder what it will be,\" thought Merran, and she felt so anxious to\nknow, that it took away part of her reluctance to leave the charming\n\"rain-house,\" as just then the Sunshine fairy, taking her hand, added,\n\"I will show you now how to find your way back.\"\n\nThey were turning to enter the house again when a sudden thought struck\nMerran, who was carrying her new treasures with the greatest care.\n\n\"Where shall I hide them?\" she asked anxiously. \"I _am_ so afraid of any\none finding them, or taking them, and there's nowhere in the little room\nwhere I sleep that I can lock up. Aunt comes in any time and looks all\nabout, to see that I keep things tidy.\"\n\n\"Quite right of her,\" said the fairy. \"I can help you to keep your\ntreasures in perfect safety, much more so than if you locked them up in\nthe strongest box that ever was made. Hold them out--one in each hand.\"\n\nMerran did so--the fairy touched them both, first the umbrella, then the\nparasol, murmuring some word or words that the child could not hear.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, \"I have made them become invisible to all eyes but your\nown, or those of the one to whom you may some day confide your secret,\nas you have permission to do. See--just to prove it to you, I will for a\nmoment make them invisible even to yourself. Shut your eyes.\"\n\nMerran did so.\n\n\"Open,\" said the Sunshine lady.\n\nMerran obeyed, but gave a cry of dismay.\n\n\"They've gone, they've gone,\" she exclaimed, \"and yet I didn't feel you\ntouching them.\"\n\nThe fairy laughed.\n\n\"Wink your eyes,\" she said. \"Now look again,\" and there sure enough were\nthe magic gifts safe and sound.\n\nMerran laughed too.\n\n\"So you don't need to be afraid of any one stealing them,\" said her\nfriend.\n\n\"N-no,\" said the child. \"But still--where had I best keep them? For you\nsee in my own room they might get knocked or brushed away, even without\nbeing seen?\"\n\n\"How about the garret?\" asked the fairy. \"No one ever interferes with\nyou there--they are used to your playing there by yourself, aren't\nthey?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" Merran replied. \"Only sometimes aunt goes up to look over\nthings, or dust a little. Why the other day she said she was going to\nthrow away the rain-house, as it was no use. I was glad she didn't, for\nI have always liked seeing it. And fancy! if she had, I should never\nhave come up here and seen this lovely place and you, dear Sunshine\nfairy, or the Rain fairy, or got your magic gifts! How dreadful to think\nof!\" But her friend only smiled.\n\n\"She could not have done it,\" she said. \"She had no power to touch it\nwhile we were still here, while it was still one of the secret entrances\nto fairyland. But as to a hiding-place for your charms,\" she went on.\n\"Have you ever peeped up at the eaves above the little storm-window\nwhere you are so fond of sitting?\"\n\n\"Yes, often,\" said Merran. \"There is an old swallows' nest there, but,\"\nand she shook her head sadly, \"they have quite deserted it for the last\ntwo years. I used to love to watch them and to hear their twittering.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless the old nest will serve your purpose perfectly,\" said the\nfairy lady. \"Hide your treasures in it; you can easily reach up without\nany danger of falling, as there is a good stretch of flat roof outside.\nAnd then, if by any chance you were seen there, it would only be\nsupposed that you were looking out of the window at the view--trying to\ncatch the peep of the sea, as you often do.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" replied Merran, greatly pleased. \"What a good idea, and how\nclever of you to think of it! How do you know so much about me and the\ngarret and everything, dear Sunshine fairy? I suppose you really could\nsee me when you were the little toy woman in the rain-house? But it\nwon't be easy to believe she's you! You are _so_ pretty compared with\nher. Mayn't I come up here again and see you as you really are?\"\n\nThe fairy shook her head.\n\n\"Our task here is accomplished,\" she said. \"You will not need to puzzle\nabout the toy woman, and how she and I can be the same and yet not the\nsame. And this way into fairyland will now be closed. But when the\nsunshine peeps in at your window and lights up your fair hair and puts\nsome colour into your cheeks, you may believe, my little maiden, that I\nam kissing you. Or when some drops of rain make you start by their cool\ntouch, you may say to yourself that the Rain fairy is sending you his\ngreeting. Both of us, first one and then the other, working together.\nThat is how it is and should be. And now,\" she went on, \"we will see you\nsafe home again,\" and glancing up, Merran saw that beside the lovely\nlady stood the picturesque figure of the Rain fairy, with his dark but\nkindly face. \"Together,\" for once, \"the pair that tell the weather.\"\n\nThey turned and entered the pretty room, passing through it, however,\ntill at the other side, where a door led into the familiar \"rain-house,\"\nor hut, they stood still, beckoning to Merran, who had followed them in\nsilence, feeling excited and happy, and yet a little sad. Then each took\none of her hands--her gifts were safely nestling inside her bodice--and\nwhispering softly, in a sort of musical murmur, which made her close her\neyes half sleepily:\n\n\"Farewell, little Merran, farewell. In sunshine or in rainy weather,\nlittle maiden, fare thee well.\"\n\nAnd before she had time to look round or wonder what was going to happen\nto her, she felt herself gently pushed over the edge of the rain-house,\nlike a fledgling which the parent birds are training to fly, and though\nshe had no wings, fly or flutter she did, down, down, till she found\nherself standing safely on the floor of the old garret, just in front of\nthe storm-window, in her favourite nook.\n\nShe rubbed her eyes. Was it all a dream?\n\nShe might almost have thought so, but--feeling in her bodice for her\nhandkerchief, her fingers touched something, and she drew out the fairy\ngifts. Yes--there they were all right, and evidently changed in size\nlike her own small self, for they lay in her hands in the same way as\nabove in the fairy house, \"and up there,\" said Merran, \"I must have been\nmuch, much littler than I am now, for I could go in and out quite\neasily.\"\n\nThe thought made her glance at the high shelf where ever since she could\nremember had stood the toy hut, with the woman's figure just peeping\nout. But what she now saw made her start.\n\nThe rain-house had fallen--its walls and roof were in pieces, as if a\nfairy earthquake had shattered them! Merran felt half inclined to cry,\nbut before she had decided if she should do so or not she caught sight\nof a tiny figure peering at her from behind the rubbish. It was the toy\nwoman, just as she had always been, dress and all, but as Merran gazed,\nthe stiff wooden doll seemed to melt away, giving place to the lovely\nSunshine fairy, who smiled and waved her hand as if in farewell, and the\nlittle girl, feeling that this was indeed her last sight of the so long\nunknown friends, who had watched over and cared for her, allowed some\ntears to trickle down her face unchecked, while she waved and kissed her\nhand in return till the pretty vision disappeared and nothing was left\nto tell her that her visit had not been all a dream, except the broken\nbits of painted wood and cardboard which she had called the rain-house!\n\n[Illustration: She caught sight of a tiny figure peering at her from\nbehind the rubbish.]\n\nNo--I am wrong--there were her magic gifts! She looked at them with\ndelight; they seemed even more dainty and charming than when she had\nfirst been given them, and then, remembering the Sunshine fairy's\ninstructions, she climbed up on her stool till she reached the top of\nthe small window and could touch the old nest, still there, and still\nquite whole. It was a splendid hiding-place. Without any difficulty\nMerran gently pushed the umbrella and parasol in, through the moss, till\nshe felt they were quite secure, just leaving the handles out enough for\nher readily to catch hold of them whenever she needed to do so.\n\nThen, with a sigh of satisfaction, she sat down again in her usual\ncorner and thought over her wonderful adventures quietly for some\nminutes. Suddenly the remembrance struck her of a hint the fairy lady\nhad given her, about a pleasant surprise in store for her on her return,\nand full of curiosity as to what it could be Merran jumped up and made\nher way across the garret and down the narrow staircase to the floor\nbelow.\n\n\"It can't be about Dirk's coming,\" she said to herself, \"for I knew that\nalready. And--that wouldn't be a pleasant thing, for I shall be ashamed\nfor him to see me in this horrid old dress,\" and she glanced at herself\ndisconsolately.\n\nBut just then she heard a voice calling her, a well-known voice, her\naunt's.\n\n\"Merran, Merran,\" it said, \"where are you, child? Come quick. I want\nyou.\"\n\nAnd something in the tone made the child feel that she was not going to\nbe scolded. It sounded much kinder than usual.\n\n\"Aunt must be in a good humour,\" she thought, and indeed so it was.\nNothing makes people feel better tempered and pleased with themselves\nthan the consciousness of having done a kindly action.\n\n\"I'm coming, auntie,\" Merran answered brightly, though in her heart she\nwas not without misgiving. \"I hope it isn't that Dirk has arrived\nalready,\" she thought, with again the mortifying remembrance of her ugly\ndress.\n\nThe dame was standing at the foot of the staircase holding up something\nfor the little girl to see. It was the unfortunate frock, already washed\nand ironed and looking quite pretty, for it really was a nice garment,\nwhite with pink sprigs and flowers running over it, and a neat frill at\nthe neck. It was Merran's favourite frock--for everyday wear, of course,\nthat is to say. Her Sunday one was a cornflower blue merino, and she was\nvery proud of it, especially as it and indeed most of her clothes had\nbeen made out of those left by her own young mother, so that on the\nwhole it was not often that the orphan child looked like a small\nCinderella.\n\n\"Well, what do you say to this?\" said her aunt with great pride, waving\nthe frock about to show it off the better.\n\n\"Auntie!\" cried Merran, who for a moment had been struck dumb with\ndelight and astonishment. \"Have you really washed it and ironed it and\nall, already? Oh _how_ good of you! Now I shan't be ashamed for Dirk to\nsee me. Oh, auntie, I don't know how to thank you.\"\n\n\"Mind you don't get it dirtied again, then,\" said the dame, \"and get\nyourself tidied as quick as you can, for there's no saying how soon the\nboy may be here. It was pretty tiresome, you know, for you to go and\ntumble into the mud to-day of all days. But I didn't want Dirk, who's\nalways been so good to you, to find you looking such a little drab.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" said Merran. \"Thank you, thank you. I'll be very\ncareful. It's getting to be quite a fine day now; the sun's come out,\nand it's not going to rain again,\" she added confidently. For I should\nhave mentioned that before hiding away her new treasures she had tried\nin vain to open the fairy umbrella, whereas the parasol spread itself\nout like a flower with but the gentlest touch.\n\n\"I hope not,\" said her aunt, \"but there's no saying, and the master's in\na sad fix about the hay--when to start it. Never was such a place as\nthis for not knowing what the weather's to be. And I would like it to\nlook bright for Dirk when he first sees his home again, after the\nbeautiful countries he's been in, where the sun's always shining, so\nthey say. Though how things can grow without rain passes me!\"\n\n\"It says in my lesson-books at school that there's places where it rains\nstraight on for a good bit and then it's fine and hot for a good bit,\"\nsaid Merran.\n\n\"Maybe that's how it is,\" said her aunt. \"Well, Dirk'll tell us all\nabout it and the other things he's seen. Now run off, child, and change\nyour frock.\"\n\nAway flew Merran, her spirits higher than for many a long day, for it\nwas not often that the dame talked to her so pleasantly, and as she ran\noff she repeated her prophecy. \"You'll see, auntie,\" she said. \"It's not\ngoing to rain at all to-day. It'll be lovely weather.\"\n\nAnd so it proved. The few clouds that had still looked somewhat\nthreatening, gradually dispersed; when the farmer came in he too seemed\nvery cheery.\n\n\"If this weather holds on for a while, we'll do famously,\" he said. \"A\ngood thing for Dirk to be back. We'll be none the worse for another pair\nof strong arms, such as I hope his are by now,\" and almost as he spoke,\nthere was the sound of wheels approaching the farm-house,--for one of\nthe elder brothers had driven in the market-cart to meet Dirk at the\nvillage where the coach was to drop him,--and in another minute in came\nthe traveller himself, eager to greet and be greeted.\n\nAnd a hearty welcome awaited him.\n\nHe had grown and improved in every way. In fact he was no longer the\nugly duckling of the family, but bid fair in a year or two to rival his\nstalwart brothers. So, naturally, of course, his parents were delighted.\n\n\"Your uncle has done well by you, and that's a fact,\" said the farmer,\ngiving the boy a hearty slap on the shoulders. \"All the same, I hope\nhe's not given you a liking for his way of life.\"\n\nFor the uncle with whom Dirk had been seeing the world for the last year\nor two, for the benefit of his health, was a sea-faring man--the\ncaptain and owner of a small trading vessel.\n\nDirk laughed, but shook his head.\n\n\"No fear of that,\" he replied. \"I like the sea well enough, but I don't\nwant to be a sailor. No, father, I'm a farmer, at least going to be one\nI hope.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said his father. \"And there's no life to compare\nwith the life of the fields, to my mind. There's just one thing to\ncomplain of, especially in these parts, and that is the uncertain\nweather. No telling any day what it may change to--and none of the\nglasses as I've ever come across is much good, if any. And this year's\nbeen one of the changeablest I remember. I wonder why it's so, for we've\nno hills close about. Maybe it's through being near the sea. I've half a\nmind to send for a strand of seaweed and hang it in the porch, and see\nwhat that'll tell.\"\n\n\"Not much good--it changes when the weather does, but not far ahead,\"\nsaid Dirk. Then a sudden idea struck him. \"Mother,\" he went on, \"long\nago there used to be an old-fashioned kind of weather-teller, up in the\ngarret, do you remember? And not long ago, in Holland, where uncle had\nto take a cargo, I came across one just like it, and the goodwife of\nthe house told me it never failed them. Suppose we get out our one?\"\n\nThe dame shook her head.\n\n\"Strange you should speak of it, Dirk,\" she replied. \"It's many a day\nsince I've given it a thought, till this very afternoon--when--\" and\nhere she gave a little smile half of apology for her own childishness,\n\"I went up to the garret to look out of the end window, which has such a\ngood view of the road, to see if the cart and you boys were in sight.\nAnd glancing up at the shelf, I missed something I was used to see\nthere. It was the old toy hut with the man and the woman. It's all in\npieces--just a crumbled heap, and no man nor woman to be seen. Maybe the\ncat's knocked it down.\"\n\n\"Then it's no good,\" said Dirk, \"for I don't think they make them\nnow--not in England, anyway.--But, mother,\" he continued, \"I've not seen\nlittle Merran yet. Where is she, and is she all right?\"\n\nThe dame started.\n\n\"To be sure. I was forgetting about her,\" she said, \"and she was here\nnot five minutes ago. I told her to stay--not that she needed telling\nwhen it was to see you again, Dirk. Merran, child,\" she called, raising\nher voice, whereupon the little girl came forward shyly from the deep\nrecess of the old-fashioned window where she had been partly hidden.\n\n\"I did stay, auntie,\" she said. \"I was only waiting for you and uncle to\nsee Dirk first,\" and as she spoke, she held out her hand to the\nnew-comer. He took it, but also stooped down to kiss her. \"You've grown\na bit, quite a tidy bit, little Merran,\" he said, \"and you're looking\nwell too--more colour in her cheeks, and so fresh and smart. Is that a\nnew frock she's on, eh, mother?\"\n\nHis praise went far to reward the dame for the trouble she had given\nherself. She smiled, and catching Merran's eye, the smile was returned.\n\n\"She's growing a big girl now, you see,\" said the aunt. \"Old enough to\nbe always tidy, and beginning to be handy too, we'll hope.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the farmer, turning from the window where he had been\nstanding looking out. \"You can be useful in the hay-field now, child. If\nI did but know what the weather's like to be to-morrow, so as to begin!\"\n\n\"Uncle,\" exclaimed Merran eagerly. \"It's going to be fine, very fine all\nto-day, and I'm almost sure all to-morrow, and I think for a lot of\ndays.\"\n\nHer uncle glanced at her and gave a little laugh.\n\n\"I hope you're right, child,\" he said. \"But how should you know? You\ncan't be a weather prophet at your age!\"\n\n\"I can't tell you how I know,\" began Merran, reddening a little, \"but I\nfeel----\" and just then Dirk broke in, and what he said was very lucky,\nas, both then and afterwards, it served the good purpose of saving her\nfrom cross-questioning about her curious power.\n\n\"Don't be too sure of that, father,\" he said. \"There's queer things we\ncan't explain, but true for all that. I've seen a good many of them at\nsea, and in the far-off places I've been at. There was one old sailor\nwho always dreamt before we put in at any port who'd find letters and\nwho wouldn't, and he never was wrong. And away in the far East, as for\nprophets!--my! I could tell you stories as'd seem like magic. Over here\nwe're thicker-headed, and maybe it's just as well. But for _nature_\nthings, there needn't be much doubt but what some are far cuter than\nothers, and maybe Merran's one who has the weather gift.\"\n\nThe little girl glanced at him gratefully, though she did not speak. In\nher heart she was saying to herself, \"I shouldn't wonder if the dear\nSunshine fairy hasn't put it into his head to say these things.\"\n\nAs for the farmer and his wife, they were both much impressed, and when\nan hour or two later the sun set in a glow of crimson and rose, the\nchild's pleasant augury seemed still more trustworthy.\n\nAnd the next morning proved its correctness.\n\nLittle did any one suspect that long before the rest of the household\nhad begun to think of awaking, in the early summer dawn, Merran had\ncrept up to her garret, and there, half trembling with excitement,\nthough much more of hope than fear, had drawn out her magic gifts to\ntest them afresh. Nor was she disappointed. The parasol flew open in her\nhands, almost before she touched it; the umbrella resisted every effort,\nthough of course she avoided any rough force. It might have been glued\nor nailed together!\n\n\"Fine!\" exclaimed Merran joyfully. \"Of course it's going to be fine all\nday--as bright and sunshiny as any one could wish. And after to-day too,\nand for some time to come I am almost certain. There's something in the\nfeeling of the dear things that I can't describe--I'm getting to\nunderstand them. The parasol seems to jump at me in a sort of assuring\nway that must mean even more than just for to-day, and the umbrella--you\n_are_ a determined fellow, Mr. Umbrella!\"\n\nShe laughed merrily in her delight and satisfaction, and the brightness\nin her face when she went downstairs to breakfast made the others smile\nat her.\n\nHappily for us all, good spirits are quite as infectious as low ones, if\nnot indeed more so.\n\n\"I'm glad I washed her frock for her yesterday,\" thought the dame,\ntaking credit to herself for the girl's pleasant looks. \"Children are\neasy up and easy down. Maybe I've been a bit too sharp with her now and\nthen.\"\n\nAnd Dirk thought to himself that poor little Merran had certainly\ngreatly improved, and even the other brothers refrained, half\nunconsciously, from teasing or jeering at her, as they had too often\ndone.\n\nThe farmer came in after they were all seated at table. He had been\nhaving a good look at the sky, and his eyes fell on the small\nprophetess, with approval.\n\n\"You've been right, Merran,\" he said. \"It does look now as if we were in\nfor a spell of real summer weather. And who'd have thought it this time\nyesterday. If only it lasts till we get the hay in.\"\n\n\"It will, uncle, it will. You'll see,\" said she. \"Just you trust me a\nbit. I'll know, I'm sure, when it's going to change.\"\n\nAnd strange to say, no one laughed at her or her predictions. On the\ncontrary, all of the family seemed impressed. Dirk's remarks the evening\nbefore were not forgotten.\n\nAnd for some time to come Merran had no reason for misgiving. Morning\nafter morning the lovely fairy parasol flew open at her tiniest touch;\nmorning after morning the umbrella refused to yield in even the faintest\ndegree. So the Seaview Farm hay was mown, and dried, and stacked under\nthe most favourable circumstances, and more than one of the neighbouring\nyeomen wished that they had been as quick about it as Mac and his sons,\nthough at the first start most of the wiseacres had told them they would\nfind it had been better to put off a while.\n\nAnd once it was all safe, there came a change. One warm bright morning,\nMerran looked up at the sky silently and then turned to her uncle.\n\n\"It's going to rain,\" she said. \"Before night it'll be raining heavily.\"\n\nThe farmer glanced in his turn at the blue, almost cloudless heavens.\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" he said. \"You're out for once, child. No sign\nwhatever of rain. It's market-day, and I'm off. I've got a good bit of\nbusiness to see to, to-day, at the town. No, no, the weather's all\nright. You'll see. I may be a trifle late, dame. Don't you be uneasy.\"\n\n\"You'll take your overcoat, anyway, father,\" said his wife, who was not\nso unbelieving in Merran's foresight as her husband.\n\nHe replied by a hearty laugh.\n\n\"Overcoat,\" he repeated. \"Bless me, what are you thinking of? Overcoat\nin weather like this! Why, it's as settled as can be--warm and fine,\nlike it's been for the last week or two. Couldn't be more settled.\"\n\n\"That's a new word to use for these parts,\" said Dirk quietly. Merran\nsaid nothing. The dame turned to her sons.\n\n\"Which of you's going with father?\" she said, adding in a whisper to\nDirk, who was next her at table, \"You'll see to it if you go,\" she said,\n\"see that he takes his coat. Think of his rheumatism if he gets soaked.\"\n\nBut Dirk shook his head, which was explained by the farmer's next\nwords.\n\n\"None of 'em,\" he said, in reply to the goodwife's enquiry. \"There's too\nmuch to do at home just now for more than me to be spared. You've all\ngot your work cut out for you--eh, boys?\"\n\nThen followed some field and crops talk, and no more was said about the\nweather, and soon after Farmer Mac set off.\n\nMerran felt sorry and a little anxious. She knew that there would have\nbeen no use in her saying anything more, for her uncle was one of the\nmost obstinate of men, but several times that day she made her way up to\nthe garret to test her strange barometers, half in hopes that the bad\nweather would hold off till the farmer was safe home again. The first\ntime the result was much the same as it had been on her early morning\nvisit. The parasol opened slowly and refused to spread out far. The\numbrella responded to her touch as it had never before done--yet it did\nnot _spring_ apart, but gradually allowed itself to stretch a certain\namount.\n\n\"That means,\" said Merran, \"that the rain's not coming just yet,\" for\nshe was growing curiously sensitive to the shades of forecast in the\nmagic toys. It was almost as if they spoke to her. But the second trial,\nlater in the day, told of nearer approach of the change, and an hour or\ntwo after that, when Merran's anxiety and in a sense, too, her curiosity\nlured her again to her garret window, the parasol was as if glued\ntogether, while the umbrella flew open in her hands, like a bird eager\nfor flight.\n\nMerran felt at the same time satisfied and yet distressed.\n\n\"It shows how true they are, and that I can correctly understand them,\"\nshe said to herself. \"Still I do wish poor uncle could get home safely\nbefore the rain begins, for evidently it will be very heavy indeed. I\nwish he had listened to me this morning, but I didn't like to be _too_\ncertain, for if I had foretold it wrongly they'd have lost faith in me,\nand I couldn't feel quite sure if it meant that the weather would change\nso soon.\"\n\nBut even as she reached up to restore her treasures to their\nhiding-place in the deserted nest, something cold fell on her hand and\nmade her start. The rain had begun!\n\nShe made her way downstairs feeling somewhat distressed, for she was by\nnature affectionate and most ready to sympathise, and of late her aunt\nhad been so much kinder and gentler that the little maid's heart was\nquite won over.\n\nShe was standing by the window, gazing out at the fast increasing\ndownpour, when the dame came in. \"Supper-time, Merran,\" she said\nbriskly, though there was no ill-temper in her tone. \"We must be setting\nthe table.\"\n\nMerran turned with a little start.\n\n\"I'm so sorry----\" she was beginning, when her aunt interrupted her.\n\"Don't look so scared, child,\" she said, \"I wasn't for scolding you.\"\n\n\"And I wasn't forgetting about supper, auntie,\" replied the little girl.\n\"It's only that I was wishing poor uncle had got safe back before the\nrain began----\"\n\n\"Why,\" exclaimed the dame, interrupting a second time, as she hurried to\nthe window, \"you don't mean to say it's started already? I was so busy\nin the laundry I hadn't noticed. Deary, deary,\" she went on, \"but it is\ncoming down! And the master without his coat--he'll be soaked through\nand through. I wish he'd listened to you, child, that I do, though I was\nhoping it'd hold off till night.\"\n\n\"I wish so too, auntie,\" said Merran. \"I'd rather have been in the wrong\nthan that poor uncle should suffer through me being in the right.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you would,\" said the dame heartily. Then she stood silent for\na moment or two, gazing in distress at the rain, which by this time was\nindeed a case of \"cats and dogs,\" really waterspouts. The anxious wife\nsighed deeply.\n\n\"He's in for it and no mistake,\" she said. \"Men's that obstinate. Well,\nwell, all we can do is to have hot water ready and make him change his\nthings at once. I'll fetch some of his clothes down to air them--no,\nI'll do better still, we'll light a small fire upstairs, for, summer\nthough it is, the evening's very chilly. And Merran, child, from now\nI'll stick to you as my weather-glass. It's a wonderful gift you've got,\nand we'll do well to believe in it.\"\n\n\"I think so too, auntie,\" said Merran. \"I really can foretell about it,\"\nand her quiet tone impressed her hearers still more, for by this time\nDirk and one of his brothers had hurried in.\n\nSupper was an uncomfortable meal that evening. They were all anxious,\nfor they all remembered the father's weary weeks of rheumatic fever the\nyear before, and one or other of the \"boys\" kept running to the door to\nlook out, or to listen for the sound of wheels, not easy to distinguish\nthrough the torrents of rain. And Merran was up and downstairs every few\nminutes to see that the fire was all right, and the clothes safely\ngetting aired. And at last he came, poor man!\n\nHe looked very white and shivery, and, to tell the truth, rather ashamed\nof himself, when he came in. For besides the miserable state of\ndrenchedness he was in, he had to own that the discomfort was all thanks\nto his obstinacy, and distrust of the little \"weather prophet's\"\nwarning. Few elderly men of any class, more especially a self-willed old\nfarmer like Mac, would like to allow that they had been outdone in\nwisdom by a child, but on the whole Merran's uncle was more ready to\ngive in than might have been expected.\n\n\"I'll listen to you next time, child,\" he said. \"That I promise you. And\nto you too, dame,\" turning to his wife, \"for it wouldn't have been so\nbad if I'd taken my thick coat. Where Merran gets her weather knowledge\nfrom beats me,\" he went on, \"but there it is, and that's a fact. I'm not\nthe only one that's been caught in the rain to-day, I can tell you. For\nat market all the talk was of the fine weather lasting a good bit\nlonger.\"\n\n\"I daresay it'll come back again,\" said Merran. \"But I do wish the storm\nhad held off till you were safe home, poor uncle.\"\n\n\"And so do I,\" said Dirk, who was busy helping the farmer to throw off\nhis streaming garments. \"As it is, father,\" he added in a lower voice,\n\"you'll do well to keep that promise. I tell you I've seen queerish\nthings in my wanderings--things beyond us to explain, and there's no\ndoubt in my mind that little Merran has got this strange power, and\nlucky for us that she has.\"\n\nThe farmer looked much impressed, for since his travels Dirk had come to\nbe looked upon as an authority.\n\n\"You don't think,\" said old Mac hesitatingly, \"that there's anything\nuncanny about it. I wouldn't like the maid to get called a witch, though\nthe days of ill-treating such are past and gone, thank Heaven.\"\n\nDirk did not reply directly.\n\n\"There's things we can't explain,\" he repeated. \"There's good mysteries\nand bad mysteries. But Merran's all right. I'd trust her to use her\nextra sense for kindness, so she'll earn no ill-will by it.\"\n\nBy this time the farmer, who was unusually meek, had been put to bed and\nmade to drink hot possets and all the rest of it, in hopes of warding\noff another bad rheumatic attack. To some extent the treatment was\nsuccessful, but not entirely. The poor man had to keep his room for over\na fortnight, which was very trying, as harvest was by no means over.\nStill, two weeks' illness is less than two months, and on the whole he\nbore his troubles patiently, and one thing which made this attack of his\nless wearisome both to himself and to his family than those that had\nlaid him up before was the great fancy he had taken to Merran--his\n\"weather maiden,\" as he had dubbed her. She proved to be an excellent\nlittle nurse, and the farmer was never as content and patient as when\nshe was sitting by him, chatting cheerfully, as she was now able to do,\nsince she was no longer frightened of being scolded, or reading aloud\nsome of her favourite stories. For she was naturally far from stupid.\nEvery morning and evening the invalid was sure to ask her about the\nweather, and, as we know, she was always ready with a forecast, which\nnever once proved mistaken. Every day, many times a day indeed, did she\nsay to herself how different her life now was from what it had been\nbefore her wonderful visit to the old \"rain-house.\"\n\nThe farmer recovered; the harvest proved a good one, time passed and\nwinter came again, and with every season Merran's fame spread. All over\nthat corner of the country she came to be talked of as the \"weather\nmaiden,\" her uncle's name for her, and many a farmer, many a peasant,\nmany a goodwife came to consult her and to hear her predictions. Her\nfame spread farther indeed than among her own people. The squire's lady\nnever fixed the day for her summer parties or for the school children's\nfeast without looking in to ask little Merran's opinion. For by long\npractice and delicate care in handling her magic gifts the girl came to\nforetell for days beforehand which of them--umbrella or parasol,\n\"Rain-man\" or \"Sunshine fairy\"--was to be in the ascendant.\n\nTime passed, weeks became months, months years, as is the appointed way\nin this round old world of ours. From a plain, unnoticeable little girl\nMerran grew into a tall sweet-faced maiden. She was not exactly pretty,\nshe was quiet and rather serious, but her dark eyes, though somewhat\ndreamy in expression, were very charming, and the tones of her voice\nwere very musical. So she was not without admirers, you may be sure.\nMany a man would have liked to marry her--some among them, no doubt,\ninfluenced by the knowledge of her wonderful gift, for of course the\npossession of it could not be kept a secret if she had wished, and she\nwas far from desiring this. On the contrary, her kind heart rejoiced\nwhen she was able to use it for the advantage of her neighbours as well\nas for the relations whom she now loved as if they were her very own,\nand who on their side loved her.\n\nBut she kept her secret, faithful to the promise she had given to the\nlovely Sunshine fairy, though there were times when she longed to share\nit with one in whom she could safely confide. And now and then at\nintervals she had a strange feeling that Dirk suspected something, for\nshe sometimes caught his eyes fixed on her with a kind of veiled\nenquiry, and once he said in a low voice, with a curious smile, \"Little\nMerran, you are not like the rest of us.\"\n\n\"Are you, yourself, Dirk?\" she replied. \"There are things you know and\nfeel that the others don't--the voices in the wind, the burden of the\nbirds' songs, the secrets of the restless waves--oh, Dirk, if one lived\na thousand years, there would still be mysteries upon mysteries of\nbeautiful things to learn!\"\n\nThen she grew shy again, for she was always quiet and timid and\nwondered how she had found courage to say so much. But Dirk seemed\npleased.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, nodding his head gently. \"Maybe we are a bit different\nfrom most of those about us. You, anyway, Merran. I've seen strange\nlands and beautiful places, but you--you give me the feeling that once\nupon a time you must have had a glimpse of real fairyland.\"\n\nMerran grew red at this, but she made no reply.\n\nOnly to herself she said, \"I wish--I do wish I might tell him,\" and then\nshe grew still redder when the words of the Sunshine fairy returned to\nher memory that only to _one_ person might she ever reveal her secret.\n\n\"And that one will never be my fate,\" thought the girl sadly. \"Dirk will\nnever care for me in _that_ way, and never could I care for any one but\nhim.\"\n\nWhereas on his side, Dirk said to himself that he must never hope to win\nthe sweet weather maiden for himself. \"Why, half the young fellows in\nthe country-side, and old ones too, are ready to woo her if she'd let\nthem! They think she'd bring good luck to her husband, and so she would.\nBut it's not for that _I_'d care for her--it's that I love her for her\nown self, luck or no luck.\"\n\nAnd one day--one happy day--had the Sunshine fairy whispered to him to\ntake courage, I wonder?--he determined to risk it, and told the maiden\nhis hopes and fears, and found how little reason for the latter there\nhad been, and the two young things, who had drawn to each other from\ntheir first meeting, before long were married, carrying with them to a\nhome of their own the magic gifts, now, to Merran's delight, her\nhusband's as much as her own.\n\nGood fortune was theirs. Whatever Dirk undertook, whatever Merran\nplanned, prospered. And that it should be so, they deserved. For they\nremained kindly and unselfish, ever ready to help others less happy than\nthemselves, grateful for their blessings, patient under trials, of\nwhich, as life cannot be _always_ sunshine, they had their share. They\nlived, I was told, to a good old age. What became of the fairy\ntreasures, I cannot say. Whether they were handed down to their\nchildren, or whether they were whisked back to fairyland, I know not,\nnot any more than I know what has become of all the toy \"rain-houses\"\nwhich in our grand-parents' times were so often to be seen. The world is\ngrowing too clever for the fairies, I fear, unless perhaps, unseen and\nunsuspected, they are still behind the scenes in some of the marvels\nand inventions all around us. Who can say?\n\nAnd by the bye, I have heard it whispered that in a certain\nout-of-the-way corner of this dear old country there lives a family\nwhose sons and daughters have a curious gift of \"weather wisdom.\" Maybe\nthey are the descendants of our Dirk and his Merran?\n\n\n\n\nThe Enchanted Trunks\n\n\nOnce upon a time, on a very hot summer's day, a girl stood waiting at\nthe door of a small old-fashioned inn, beside a little heap of luggage.\nShe was quite young, about sixteen, or seventeen at the most. Her face\nwas sweet in expression, and would have been pretty if she had not\nlooked so tired and anxious. She was quite alone and seemed shy and\ntimid, for now and then, when some of the folk belonging to the place,\npassing in and out, wished her good-day, or made any friendly remark,\nshe started and grew crimson even though she replied politely. And when\nafter a time the landlady herself came to the door and asked the girl if\nshe would not step inside and wait in the parlour, she answered\nhesitatingly that she thought she had better stay in the porch.\n\n\"I'm so afraid of missing the coach, or losing my seat in it,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"No fear of that, Miss,\" said the comfortable-looking dame. \"Your place\nis engaged, no doubt.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I suppose so,\" the stranger replied. \"My name is\nO'Beirne--Clodagh O'Beirne.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said the landlady; \"I remember the name. The\nmaster--that's my husband--called out to the coachman last night that he\nmust secure a place for you to-day. You'd written for it, no doubt?\"\n\n\"Yes, the friends I stayed the night with--I only came over from Ireland\nyesterday--did so. It was their gig that brought me here just now, to\ncatch the coach as it passed.\"\n\nThe landlady's good-humour seemed to cheer the girl a little; she began\nto look less frightened.\n\n\"You've come a long way,\" the older woman remarked. \"Right across the\nsea, I take it?\" The girl nodded, and looked as if she were going to\ncry. The landlady's curiosity was aroused. \"And it's the first time\nyou've left home, I daresay, and all by yourself too. It must feel\nstrange-like.\"\n\n\"I wasn't alone till to-day. A friend came over with me,\" Clodagh\nreplied. \"And I shan't be alone long. I'm to meet a--a lady, a cousin,\nand we are to travel together.\"\n\n\"Ah indeed, that'll be much pleasanter for you,\" said her companion.\n\nThe young girl murmured something. But to herself she was saying that\nshe was by no means sure of it. And after a little silence she went on,\n\"I don't think I'd mind travelling alone--I don't mind anything very\nmuch now that I haven't any home--except,\" and she glanced at the heap\nof rather heterogeneous baggage, \"except for all these things. I'm so\nafraid of losing half of them, and yet Biddy and I packed as neatly as\never we could. Biddy was grandmother's maid, and she stayed with me\nafter dear granny died, till it was settled for me to go to live with my\ncousin and travel about with her.\"\n\n\"It'll be fine and amusing for you,\" said the landlady.\n\n\"I--I don't know,\" said Clodagh. \"I'm not used to travelling, and I've\nnot seen my cousin for a good while, and she may think me stupid.\"\n\n\"But she's a young lady, I suppose?\" said her questioner.\n\n\"Not very. She's--oh, she's seven or eight years older than I, and she\nwants to travel all about till she finds a place to suit her. She's like\nme, except that she's rich. She's got no parents and can do as she\nlikes.\"\n\nThen suddenly it seemed to strike the young stranger that she was\nperhaps too communicative, and she grew rather pink. \"I shouldn't\nperhaps----\" she began, but the kind-hearted woman understood and\ninterrupted. \"It's me, Miss, that's in fault,\" she said. \"I shouldn't\nmake free to ask so many questions. But it went to my heart to see you\nstanding there alone, so young and half-frightened like. I had a little\ndaughter once--she'd have been not so much older than you if she'd\nlived----\" She stopped for a moment, then she went on again: \"Wouldn't\nyou like a cup of tea now, Miss?\" she said. \"It's a time o' day I often\nhas one, for we've no lie-abeds in our house, and it's a good while\nsince we'd breakfast, and if you've come some distance you'll have been\nup betimes, I'd daresay.\"\n\nClodagh's face brightened.\n\n\"It's very kind of you,\" she said. \"I would like it uncommonly. I\ncouldn't eat any breakfast, I was so afraid of being too late.\nBut--please tell me how much it will cost. I mustn't spend anything I\ncan help, you see. Once I'm with Cousin Paulina, she will pay things\nlike that for herself and me.\"\n\n\"Don't trouble your pretty head about it,\" said the goodwife. \"We're\nwell-to-do, my man and me, and neither chick nor kin to come after us,\nmore's the pity--and--you do make me think of what my little maid would\nhave been by now, Missy, if you'll pardon the liberty. Now just step\ninside--to my own parlour--the kettle's on the hob--you'll feel quite a\ndifferent young lady once you've had a bit of breakfast, better late\nthan never.\"\n\n\"And you promise me I won't miss the coach,\" said the girl, as she\nfollowed the kind woman into the little sitting-room behind the bar.\n\n\"No fear, no fear,\" replied her hostess, and as Clodagh sat down in the\ncomfortable chintz-covered old armchair--the landlady's own, which she\ndrew forward for the unexpected guest--the girl gave a sigh of content.\n\"It is nice and cool in here,\" she said, \"and I _am_ so tired already\nand so thirsty. I wish I were going to stay here for a bit.\"\n\n\"Indeed and I wish it too, Miss, and it's our best we'd do to make you\ncomfortable,\" said the dame, as she bustled about to make the tea, which\nshe fetched from the kitchen hard by, and to cut some tempting slices of\nbread and butter. \"But travelling's very pleasant, some folks say.\nThere's an old lady not far from here--that's to say, her own home\nis--but she's for ever on the go. They do say as she's been all over the\nworld, and old as she is, she seldom rests.\"\n\n\"Is she so very old?\" asked Clodagh.\n\n\"No one knows,\" was the mysterious reply. \"My husband's mother, and\nshe's no chicken as you can fancy, remembers her as quite aged when she\nwas young. But she never seems to get no older. Some say she was\nspirited away by the good folk when she was a baby and that she's got a\nfairy's life--indeed there's some that will have it she's not really one\nof us at all.\"\n\nClodagh, by this time refreshed by the tea, sat up eagerly. \"Oh,\" she\nexclaimed, \"I'm so glad you talk of the good folk. I thought it was only\nat home--in Ireland, I mean, that people still believed in them.\"\n\n\"Dear me, no,\" said her hostess, with a smile. \"Maybe in the big towns\nyou never hear of them nowadays, and no wonder. They can't abide noise\nand bustle and dirt. But in these parts, oh dear yes. I've heard tell of\nthem all _my_ life, I know, and of their tricksy ways. They can be the\nbest of friends, but, my word! if they take offence they can worry one's\nlife out.\"\n\nClodagh was listening with all her ears. Her eyes had grown brighter,\nand some colour had come into her cheeks, with the mere mention of fairy\nfolk, so familiar to her since her infancy.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said with a little sigh, \"what you say does make me wish still\nmore that I could stay here a few days and get rested, and you would\ntell me stories, as my dear old nurse used to do.\"\n\n\"That I would,\" said the landlady, \"and indeed I wish you could stay to\nhear them. Not that I've ever really come across the fairies--brownies\nand pixies, they call them in some parts--myself, nor even set eyes on\none of them--unless indeed----\" and here she stopped abruptly, lowering\nher voice.\n\n\"Unless what?\" asked Clodagh. \"Do tell me.\"\n\n\"Just what I was saying a minute ago,\" the dame went on. \"Unless that\nstrange old lady is one herself, as I'm more than half inclined to think\nby what I've heard tell of her.\"\n\n\"Then you've seen her?\" questioned the girl eagerly.\n\nThe landlady nodded.\n\n\"Just seen her,\" she said. \"Twice--no, I think three times, she's passed\nin the coach, and I've just said a word to her at the door. Once she\nasked for a glass of milk. 'Twas a very hot morning, like as it might\nbe to-day.\"\n\n\"How I wish she might be in the coach this morning!\" exclaimed the\ntraveller, her eyes sparkling. \"It would be so interesting, and if she\nknew I was Irish she might take a fancy to me, for the good people do\nlove the Irish!\" and at the idea the girl laughed merrily for the first\ntime.\n\n\"Yes,\" agreed the dame, \"indeed she might, my pretty young lady. But\nit's a long time since she's passed this way. One never knows where she\nis, or how she'll travel. Now and then she'll set off in her own coach\nand four, like any princess, and I've heard it whispered that she'll\nsometimes disappear from her home, no one knows how.\"\n\n\"Oh, a broomstick, maybe, or has she a pet gander?\" laughed Clodagh.\n\nBut the landlady looked a little frightened.\n\n\"Hush, Missy, my dear,\" she whispered, \"it doesn't do to----\" Then she\nsuddenly started. \"I'm afraid that's the coach,\" she exclaimed, \"and\nsorry I am to part with you, but if you're bound to go, we'd best be at\nthe door ready.\"\n\nClodagh jumped up at once.\n\n\"And thank you a thousand times,\" she said, \"for all your kindness.\nYes, I must go. My cousin will be looking out for me. I've not seen her\nfor five years,\" she added nervously. \"Wish me good luck, my kind\nfriend.\"\n\n\"That I will,\" said the dame heartily.\n\n\"You've cheered me greatly,\" said the girl, and in her impulsive Irish\nway she held up her sweet young face for a kiss.\n\nThe coach it was, sure enough. There was some trouble about getting\nClodagh's rather complicated belongings on to it, it was already so\npiled up. But with difficulty all was at last disposed, outside and in,\nand thanks to the landlady nothing was left behind.\n\nThere were tears in the kind woman's eyes when at last it rumbled off,\nher young guest of an hour waving good-bye out of the window.\n\nBut it is Clodagh's adventures we have to follow. For a minute or two\nthe bustle of getting her bags and boxes settled prevented her realising\nthat there was already a passenger in the coach, and before looking\nround she felt obliged to lean out once again in a last farewell to her\nkind new friend. She was soon, however, recalled to the present.\n\n\"Who is there?\" said a voice--a rather petulant one--from the corner.\n\"Whatever is the matter? I was fast asleep till there was all this fuss!\nOh!--\" with an exclamation, \"can it be you, Clodagh O'Beirne? I had no\nidea we were at Crossway Corner already?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" Clodagh replied, \"it is I. I didn't know it was you,\nCousin Paulina. I wasn't sure, you see, if I would find you here, or if\nyou would only meet me at the next stage. Lady Roseley wasn't certain\nfrom your letter which it would be.\"\n\n\"Humph,\" murmured Mistress Paulina. \"Well, after all I decided that to\navoid any mistake I'd get up for once by cock-crow, so as to start from\nStracey. I hate getting up early, and I was fast asleep as you saw. Did\nLady Roseley send some one with you, then, to see you off? You seemed to\nbe nodding good-byes.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Clodagh. \"That's to say only the old coachman who drove me\nover and left me at the inn. I was all right. No, it was only the\nlandlady I was waving to. She was so kind, helping to carry out my\nthings,\" and she glanced round at the various encumbrances. The place\nwas certainly inconveniently crowded, and so Paulina, now wide-awake,\nseemed to think, as she took it all in, and that with evident annoyance.\n\n\"I must say, Clodagh,\" she remarked, \"that you have a queer collection\nof luggage. I hope you will get rid of some of these bags and baskets\nbefore we start again. I don't deny that I travel with a fair amount\nmyself,\" and indeed the coach had seemed well packed inside and out,\nbefore the younger girl's belongings had been added, \"but a child like\nyou can't need such an amount. You'll have to learn to be a clever\ntraveller, my dear, if we're to get on together.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry,\" said Clodagh apologetically. \"You see, cousin, I never\nhave left home before, and I didn't know how to manage. I'll do my best,\nand I hope I'll soon learn, for of course I shall pack for you as well\nas for myself. That I quite understand.\"\n\n\"Well, yes,\" said Paulina. \"I can't go about with you _and_ a maid. And\nas things have unfortunately turned out so sadly for you, it seemed to\nme you'd be better off with me than going among strangers. And on my\nside, I'm sick of maids with their airs and graces and vulgarities. I\nprefer to have a companion of my own class.\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you,\" Clodagh replied. \"It was a very kind thought of\nyours, and I shall soon learn to manage well, I hope. To begin with, I\nthink we might arrange all these things better,\" and she stood up and\npulled about and pushed and lifted, till the narrow space looked more\norderly, Paulina from her corner now and then directing and advising.\nShe was a handsome young woman, with a by no means disagreeable\nexpression. Indeed there was often a kindly light in her bright eyes,\nand gentle curves about her mouth. But she was self-willed and\nquick-tempered, \"spoilt\" in short, though generous and well-meaning,\nentirely unused to contradiction and impatient of any obstacles in the\nway of her wishes or fancies.\n\n\"Thank goodness,\" she ejaculated, as she settled herself down again in\nher wraps, \"thank goodness, we have no fellow-passengers. Now I mean to\ngo to sleep again, and so may you, child, if you like. We shall stop at\nOddingstowe for dinner and fresh horses, and by four o'clock we should\nbe at Felway, where the Marristons' carriage--and, it is to be hoped, a\ncart for the luggage--is to meet us. They expect us to stay at the\nPriory for two or three days. They know you will be with me.\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you,\" replied Clodagh again, feeling mortally shy at the\nprospect before her, yet not venturing to say so.\n\nPaulina composed herself to sleep once more, and before long, in spite\nof the thoughts that crowded her mind--anxieties, hopes, and fears, as\nshe realised more clearly her new position as her kinswoman's\ncompanion--Clodagh too, though a few minutes ago she would not have\nbelieved it possible, Clodagh too dozed off.\n\nAnd she slept, as did Paulina, for some time. The stopping of the\nvehicle, the cessation of the monotonous rumbling, aroused them both.\n\nPaulina sat up, rubbing her eyes.\n\n\"Dear me,\" she exclaimed, \"Oddingstowe already!\"\n\nClodagh looked out of the window.\n\n\"No,\" she said hesitatingly. \"I don't think it can be. There's no\nvillage or houses; only a turnpike. Oh, yes,\" she went on, \"I see what\nit is. We're stopping to take up another passenger.\"\n\n\"What sort of one?\" her cousin demanded. \"I hope to goodness it's not a\nfirst-class one--an inside one--we are stuffed up enough already.\nThere's scarcely air to breathe.\"\n\n\"N-no,\" Clodagh replied, continuing to look out. \"I don't think it can\nbe. It's only a little old woman, quite poor, and she doesn't seem to\nhave any luggage. She's only carrying a hand-bag--just a sort of\nreticule.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Paulina responded, lazily settling herself again for\nanother nap. \"All the same, I wish they wouldn't pull up in this\nunnecessary way. I was so comfortably asleep. It's the only thing to do\nin this tropical heat.\"\n\nClodagh too was sitting down again, congratulating herself, more on\nPaulina's account than her own, that their privacy was not to be\ndisturbed--when, alas, her unspoken relief proved premature. To her\nastonishment, the guard approached the door, which he opened, and with a\n\"your pardon, ladies,\" to the two girls, held it civilly by the handle,\nfor the new-comer to enter.\n\nClodagh instinctively drew back a little for her to pass. There were\nfour places--two and two--facing each other. Hitherto the younger girl\nhad been sitting beside her cousin--the opposite seat covered with their\npossessions. But now she at once began to clear a space on it for\nherself, for she saw at a glance that the stranger was old, and looked\nfragile and delicate, and in spite of the extreme simplicity of her\nattire--she wore only a clean but faded cotton of an old-fashioned\nflowery pattern, half covered by a sort of market-woman's cloak, and\nsurmounted by a huge black straw bonnet--in spite of this there was a\ncertain dignity about her as in reply to Clodagh's silent attention she\nmurmured, \"I thank you, young lady. But do not disturb yourself. I can\noccupy the back seat.\"\n\n\"I should think so indeed,\" exclaimed Paulina angrily. \"Indeed, my good\nwoman, I am inclined to believe that your coming in here at all is some\nmistake. This is for first-class passengers, and moreover our places\nhave been engaged for some days ahead.--What are you thinking of, you\nsilly child?\" she went on sharply, turning to her cousin. \"Why should\nyou give up your place to this person and her bundles? I won't have it.\nSit down beside me at once,\" for Clodagh with a crimson face was still\nhesitating and moving about the bags and baggage nervously, though the\nnew-comer had already settled herself quietly with her back to the\nhorses.\n\n\"Paulina,\" said the younger girl in a low voice, \"_do_ not be so\nexcited. She has no bundles, or anything, so it cannot really\ninconvenience us. And she is old, and looks so fragile. It is only\nright that I should offer her my seat.\"\n\nPaulina was about to reply in the same irritated tone, when she was\ninterrupted.\n\n\"I thank you, my kind young lady,\" said the stranger in a clear voice,\nwhich somehow enforced attention, \"I thank you for your courtesy and\nconsideration. But I have no desire to take your place, I assure you. In\nfact I prefer this side. I am an old traveller. Nor will my presence\nincommode you for long. I shall leave the coach before we reach\nOddingstowe.\"\n\nClodagh murmured a gentle \"Thank you.\" She was grateful to the old woman\nfor not resenting her cousin's rudeness. And to Paulina she whispered,\n\"She _cannot_ be a mere peasant. Her voice and words show it\"; and to do\nher justice, the elder girl looked a little ashamed of herself.\n\n\"Don't tease me,\" she said. \"It always upsets me to be wakened suddenly.\nI'm going to sleep again,\" and so saying she leant back and closed her\neyes.\n\nAnd after a few minutes Clodagh followed her example, though she was no\nlonger sleepy. But something--a vague feeling of slight shyness--made\nher do so, for she was conscious of her opposite neighbour's scrutiny.\nNow and then from the depths of the quaint black bonnet she caught the\ngleam of dark bright eyes, and the sensation caused her cheeks to grow\npink again.\n\n\"Who and what can she be?\" the girl said to herself. \"She certainly\nlooks like a peasant, but her voice--her expressions--her dignity belie\nit,\" and thus puzzling over the anomaly, Clodagh after all fell asleep.\n\nNow I must mention what may seem strange and most improbable. You will\nremember the description given to the young traveller only an hour or\ntwo before the coach stopped at the turnpike, of the old lady in the\nneighbourhood, concerning whom such curious and even uncanny things were\nsaid?\n\nYes--well, this is the strange fact. Though Clodagh was at once\nimpressed in an unusual way by the personality of their\nfellow-traveller, and perplexed to explain her inconsistencies, never\nonce during the day's journey did it occur to her to put \"two and two\ntogether\"; to guess, as no doubt you, children, who are reading this\nlittle old story, will already have done, that here in person was the\nmysterious lady of the landlady's legend--the being who, if not actually\nof fairy race herself, still had much in common with the \"good people,\"\nand doubtless dealings with them.\n\nBut so it happened with Clodagh, and afterwards--not a long-delayed\nafterwards either, as you will hear--she felt quite unable to explain\nher own forgetfulness, or \"stupidity\" as she called it.\n\nIn the meantime what occurred was this. She slept and Paulina slept on\nuninterruptedly till the coach drew up at Oddingstowe. And when it did\nso, and the clatter over the cobble-stones of the old inn's courtyard\naroused them, lo and behold, they were alone! The strange new-comer had\ndisappeared. The whole episode might have been a dream, only that\nrarely, if ever, do any two people dream the same and at the same time.\n\nPaulina stared.\n\n\"She's gone,\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes,\" said her cousin, feeling very much inclined to add, \"You needn't\nhave been so rude to her.\"\n\n\"I never felt or heard the coach stop to let her get out,\" added the\nelder girl.\n\n\"Nor did I,\" said Clodagh, \"only----\"\n\n\"Only what?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I was dreaming, I suppose. But I have a misty recollection of\nhearing some one say, almost in a whisper, 'Good-bye for the present, my\ndear. We shall meet again.'\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" said Paulina, with a slight shudder. \"Clodagh, you don't\nthink possibly she's a witch?\"\n\nClodagh's spirit of mischief inclined her to frighten her cousin a\nlittle, but she refrained.\n\n\"No, of course not,\" she replied. \"She's a very polite and harmless old\nwoman, though, no doubt, there did seem something rather odd--mysterious\nalmost--about her. But if I may say it, Paulina, I think, in travelling\nespecially, it is best to be so--polite I mean--to everybody one is\nthrown into contact with.\"\n\nPaulina muttered something which sounded like \"rubbish\" or \"nonsense,\"\nbut aloud she only said snappishly, \"You know nothing about travelling,\nchild. One has to keep up one's dignity.\"\n\n\"There is a good way and a bad way of doing so,\" thought the younger\ngirl, though she said nothing more. She was relieved, however, to see\nthat her cousin was not really vexed with her, for she had spoken\nimpulsively, forgetting that it was scarcely her place to reprove\nPaulina, all things considered.\n\n\"I think she is really gentler and kinder than she sometimes appears,\"\nClodagh's reflections went on. \"I fancy I shall be able to get on with\nher if I am patient, and if I try my best. The only thing I am depressed\nabout is the luggage! I don't know _how_ to get my own things into\nsmaller compass, and when it comes to all her belongings too, I don't\nsee my way at all. I am so afraid of losing any of her beautiful\nclothes, and no doubt she has valuable jewellery too, and she is very\nchangeable in her plans. Lady Roseley warned me that sometimes I should\nhave to pack and unpack at very short notice indeed!\" and she could not\nhelp sighing a little. But Paulina did not observe it, for by this time,\nas I said, they were at Oddingstowe, the small town where they were to\nstop to change horses and to have some early dinner, of which the elder\ngirl declared that she felt much in need.\n\nAn hour later they started again, to Paulina's satisfaction no other\ninside passenger appearing. A short though heavy thunder shower had\nsomewhat cleared the air, the simple meal had refreshed them, and\nPaulina seemed quite to have recovered her good-temper. She grew\ntalkative.\n\n\"Have you ever heard of the Marristons?\" she asked. \"My friends at the\nPriory, you know, where we are to spend a few days.\"\n\nClodagh shook her head.\n\n\"No,\" she replied. \"You said in your last letter that you had a visit to\npay on your way to the place where you intend to drink the waters, but\nyou did not mention any names.\"\n\n\"Didn't I?\" said Paulina carelessly. \"Oh well, I'm not good at\nletter-writing. They're very nice people, and very kind. You needn't\nfeel shy about going there,\" for Clodagh's manner and rising colour had\nalready shown that shy she was. \"It won't be a large party, as they are\nquite alone just now; just the father and mother, elderly people, their\nmarried son and his wife and two daughters, older than you and I.\"\nPaulina rather liked to make herself out younger than she was, when it\nsuited her, though at other times she treated her cousin as if she were\na complete child.\n\n\"I am glad of that,\" Clodagh replied. \"Then,\" she went on, somewhat\nnervously, \"perhaps you won't wear your very best dresses there, or\nshall I take out everything?\" for this terrifying question of packing\nand unpacking was still uppermost in her mind.\n\n\"Oh dear me!\" exclaimed Paulina crossly, \"perhaps not. How can I say?\nYou'll just have to see. That's what I want you for--to use your\nintelligence; don't you understand? I hate being asked about every\ntrifle.\" Then, feeling that she had been speaking irritably, she went on\nmore kindly: \"I suppose you've got some tidy gowns of your own--your\ngranny liked you to look nice, I know.\"\n\n\"I haven't got any proper evening gowns,\" said Clodagh. \"I used to wear\nsimple white muslin--not grown-up gowns, you know, but since grandmother\ndied I've only had black.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, of course,\" Paulina agreed. \"Well, just wear your nicest black\nin the evening. Your being in mourning will explain it's not being full\ndress. When we get to St. Aidan's\"--the place where she intended to\ndrink the waters--\"I'll see about some gowns for you. I hear that the\nshops there are quite modish.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Clodagh gratefully. But in her heart she was thinking:\n\"Oh dear, if _I_'m to have more clothes, it will make the packing still\nworse, and where am I to put them if Cousin Paulina complains already of\nmy luggage?\"\n\nBut no more was said on the subject just then, and before very long they\nfound themselves at Felway, where they left the coach, to complete the\nrest of the day's journey in Squire Marriston's chariot, which was\nawaiting them, as well as, to Paulina's satisfaction, a cart for their\nvoluminous belongings.\n\nThe elder girl stepped into the roomy vehicle and glanced round her with\napproval.\n\n\"What a comfort to be less crowded up!\" she exclaimed. \"Clodagh, tell\nthem to put everything in the cart. Just give me my satin mantle--these\nhot days sometimes end in chilly evenings--nothing else,\" and as her\ncousin obeyed her, \"You are sure nothing was left in the coach?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" replied Clodagh confidently. \"Still, I'll glance inside\nagain, to make quite sure,\" and she did so, for the stage-coach was\nstill there, waiting for fresh horses.\n\nShe came back to report satisfactorily, and they set off.\n\nIt was a longish drive, five or six miles, and the latter part through\nrough roads and lanes which reminded Clodagh of her native land.\n\n\"Thank goodness,\" said Paulina more than once, \"that it is not winter\nor very wet weather. We should stick fast in the mud in these\ncart-tracks, to a certainty.\"\n\nBut before long they reached the Priory, safe and sound, and as they\ndrove up the avenue, caught sight of two or three figures waiting to\nwelcome them in front of the picturesque old house.\n\nIt was not a very large place, but home-like and attractive. Clodagh,\nwho was accustomed to huge rambling \"castles,\" often in a more or less\ndilapidated state, felt glad that this, the first English country-house\nshe had seen, was smaller and less imposing, and the kind greetings of\nthe Misses Marriston soon helped her to feel less shy and timid. It was\nlong before these modern days of \"five o'clock teas,\" but then dinner\nwas proportionately early, and when the new-comers had shaken hands with\nthe rest of the family, assembled in the hall to welcome them, Annot\nMarriston, the younger of the daughters and Paulina's special friend,\nproposed that the cousins should at once go up to their rooms.\n\n\"You will be glad to take off your travelling things,\" she said, \"and\ndinner will be ready in less than an hour.\"\n\nAt this, Paulina's face fell, and Clodagh looked rather blank. For by\nthis time they were standing in the spacious and comfortable\nguest-chamber prepared for the former, out of which opened a smaller but\npleasant little room for her young cousin companion. But in neither,\nnaturally enough, was there as yet any sign of their belongings.\n\n\"Dinner in less than an hour!\" exclaimed Paulina; \"and how am I to\nchange my dress? I suppose, my dear Annot, the luggage-cart won't be\nhere in time?\"\n\nMiss Annot shook her head.\n\n\"Not for an hour or nearly that, I fear,\" she replied. \"It comes slowly.\nBut there is room on the chariot for a box or two. I wish I had told the\nmen to mention this, and then you could have brought on with you\nwhatever you needed at once.\"\n\nPaulina looked extremely annoyed.\n\n\"Clodagh,\" she said sharply, \"you really might have thought of it.\"\n\nClodagh looked and felt guilty.\n\n\"I will do so another time,\" she murmured.\n\nAnnot felt sorry for her.\n\n\"I'll run down and enquire about the cart,\" she said. \"Possibly it may\nnot take as long as I said,\" and she was hastening off when Paulina\nstopped her, for she had sufficient good sense and feeling not to wish\nto begin their visit by a scene of ill-temper.\n\n\"After all,\" she said, \"it does not very much matter, my dear Annot, if\nyou all will kindly excuse our enforced _deshabille_, as I understand\nyou are quite alone--just your own family party.\"\n\nAnnot hesitated a little.\n\n\"Ye-es,\" she replied. \"Certainly only a family party. But I was just\ngoing to tell you that Cousin Felicity has arrived unexpectedly. She had\nretired to her own apartment before you drove up. That is her way, you\nknow. She swoops down upon us without the slightest warning and off\nagain in the same way.\"\n\n\"How very disagreeable!\" ejaculated Paulina, but Miss Marriston hastened\nto correct her.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"on the contrary, we are always very pleased to see her.\nShe is a most interesting person and has travelled immensely. At the\nsame time, I confess that we are somewhat in awe of her, and always\nbehave to her with the greatest deference and respect. She is a strange\nmixture. Sometimes she goes about like an old peasant or gipsy--no one\nknows how old she really is! But on occasions, always at dinner for\ninstance, she dresses magnificently--her diamonds are a sight to see!\nThat was why I hesitated just now, for I should have liked you to be in\ncorrect attire. I will just ask about the cart,\" and off she went, to\nreturn in a minute or two with the cheering information that there was\nevery chance of the luggage arriving in about half an hour.\n\n\"And in the meantime,\" she said, \"let me lend you brushes and combs, or\nwhatever will help you to begin your toilet.\"\n\n\"Oh pray do so,\" said Clodagh gratefully. \"Cousin Paulina, I am at least\nsure that I can arrange your hair so as to please you. I have really\npractised hair-dressing. I have so much of my own.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Paulina, when kind Annot returned with the promised\narticles, \"you may as well set to at once,\" and she proceeded to take\noff her hat and veil and other things. \"I don't think I ever heard of\nthis eccentric relative of yours before,\" she went on, turning to her\nfriend. \"She must be quite a character.\"\n\n\"That she is,\" was the reply. \"I wonder I never told you about her.\nMother is not sure that she really is a cousin, but she likes us to call\nher so. The relationship must be very distant, dating back to former\ngenerations, for both my parents remember her as an old lady when they\nwere only children.\"\n\nHere Clodagh gave a little exclamation. Annot stopped politely.\n\n\"Did you speak?\" she said.\n\nClodagh blushed, as she often did.\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" she replied. \"I don't know what I meant. It\nsuddenly struck me that I had already heard of some one like your\ncousin, so very old that no one living could remember the person,\nwhoever it was, as anything but old. It is curious,\" she went on\ndreamily, \"that I cannot recall where I heard it,\" for even then no\nremembrance of the landlady's mysterious description awoke in her mind.\n\n\"Well, what does it matter?\" said Paulina sharply. \"Don't worry about it\nwhen you are doing my hair. You gave it such a tug just now when you\nstarted so.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry,\" said the girl, and she gave her whole attention to the\nwork in hand, as to which she was really skilful.\n\nThen Annot left them, repeating her hopes that the luggage would not be\nlong of coming. \"I quite think it may,\" she said, \"for they took a good\nstrong horse in the cart--not one of the ponies only.\"\n\nBut time went on. Paulina's \"coiffure\" was completed, happily to her\nsatisfaction; the hands of the clock were fast approaching the\ndinner-hour, and no sign of the longed-for arrival.\n\n\"Only twenty minutes now,\" said Paulina. \"Really I have never been so\nawkwardly placed before. I must say, Clodagh, I do think----\" But these\nthoughts were destined to remain unrevealed, for at that moment there\ncame portentous but most welcome sounds in the corridor outside the\nroom, and in another moment a servant tapped at the door, and entering,\nrequested the ladies kindly to direct the placing of the boxes.\n\nClodagh hurried out.\n\n\"All of yours had better be brought in here, I suppose, cousin?\" she\nasked as she went.\n\n\"Of course, but not yet,\" Paulina exclaimed. \"What are you thinking of,\nchild? First of all I must get dressed. My black lace will be the\nquickest for to-night. It is in the brown leather imperial. Have that\nbrought in, and--and the large despatch-box, and the rest can wait till\nwe go downstairs.\"\n\nThe first-named case was carried to its place, and Paulina was busy\nselecting the key when Clodagh ran in with a startled face.\n\n\"Cousin,\" she exclaimed, \"the despatch-box is not there!\"\n\nPaulina gave a shriek.\n\n\"Impossible--and with all my jewellery! Clodagh, you vowed that you saw\neverything off the coach, and I vow that I saw it lifted inside when I\nstarted.\"\n\n\"I did, I did see that everything was brought out,\" exclaimed Clodagh,\nnow on the point of tears, when luckily, oh the relief of it, a highly\nrespectable functionary in irreproachable attire appeared at the end of\nthe passage, carrying with his own majestic hands the missing case.\n\n\"I have brought this myself, Madam,\" he said, addressing Paulina, \"to\nsee it delivered into your personal keeping, surmising that it was of\nimportance.\"\n\n\"Oh thank you, thank you a thousand times,\" cried the younger girl\nimpulsively in her joy, forgetting that she was not the person to reply,\ntill her cousin, with a condescending gesture, answered stiffly: \"I am\nobliged to you. You are quite right. The contents are of great value,\nand but for carelessness,\" with a glance at Clodagh, \"the case should\nhave come with ourselves in the chariot. It is not the kind of thing to\nbe sent in a cart.\"\n\nThe butler, for such he was, bowed in reply.\n\n\"Exactly so,\" he said. \"Another time I should advise----\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" Clodagh interrupted. \"I know it was my fault, but I shall\nunderstand better in future. Paulina, do make haste. I have got your\ndress out. We will be as quick as possible,\" she added, turning to the\nbutler, who took the hint and with another bow his departure also.\n\nAnd in an incredibly short time, thanks to Clodagh, whose eagerness\nseemed to give her two or three pairs of hands instead of one, the elder\ngirl was attired, jewellery and all. She looked very handsome, and her\nyoung companion stepped back a step or two to admire her.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Paulina, glancing at the mirror with complacency, \"I think I\nlook all right. You're not half a bad maid, child, or let us say----\"\n\n\"Never mind, if you're pleased, I don't care what I'm called,\" Clodagh\ninterrupted. \"If only,\" she added, with a little sigh, \"if only I can\nlearn about the luggage, the packing and unpacking and not losing\nthings.\"\n\nShe opened the door as she spoke for her cousin to pass out, and for the\nfirst time, as she stood there, the colour of excitement in her face and\nthe sparkle in her eyes, it struck Paulina that the \"child,\" as she\ncalled her with half-contemptuous affection, was fast becoming a very\npretty creature, and with this came a sudden flash of self-reproach, for\nthere was nothing consciously selfish or small-minded about the elder\ngirl, spoilt and self-willed and autocratic as she was.\n\nShe stopped short with a gesture of horror.\n\n\"What have I been thinking of?\" she exclaimed, \"and you yourself,\nClodagh? You're not dressed--you've not begun to dress, and the\ndinner-hour already or almost. Why didn't you remind me that you had to\nget ready too?\"\n\nClodagh smiled.\n\n\"I really don't think it matters,\" she said. \"I haven't got a proper\ngrown-up gown to begin with, and really there wasn't time to get out my\nthings too. I'm sure Mrs. Marriston will understand, and I daresay I can\nhave a little dinner sent up to me, if you----\"\n\nBut she stopped short, for just then Annot came running along the\npassage towards them. \"Can I----?\" she was beginning, when, glancing at\nthem and the confusion of boxes and bags lying about, she saw that there\nwas something the matter. Paulina rapidly explained, and \"Need I come\ndown?\" pleaded Clodagh.\n\n\"If she doesn't,\" persisted her cousin, \"it will put everything wrong.\nIt will look as if--as if--you know, Annot, I want her to be considered\na sort of younger sister of mine. We _are_ near relations. Clodagh, you\ndon't want me to seem selfish and unkind.\"\n\nMiss Annot considered.\n\n\"After all,\" she said, \"Clodagh--may I call you so?--is scarcely\ngrown-up, and being in mourning too. If you just arrange your hair a\nlittle, though really it does not look bad--it is so bright and\nwavy--and--let me see, I can lend you a pretty simple fichu--over your\nplain black bodice it will look rather well. Come with me--my room is\nclose at hand.\"\n\nAnd in two or three minutes they returned to where Paulina was anxiously\nawaiting them--Clodagh looking quite fresh and sweet in the half\nPuritan-like garb, with a bow of black velvet in her hair and a bunch of\nviolets as a breast-knot.\n\n\"Yes,\" thought her cousin, \"she's going to be quite a beauty. I must\nget her some proper clothes, but\"--as her eye fell on the confused pile\nof their possessions beside her--\"I don't know how ever she will manage\nall this, and yet I can't go about with a maid as well! I do hope for\nher sake as well as my own that I haven't been rash in this plan.\"\n\nBut she smiled pleasantly enough as she thanked Annot for her kind\noffices, and then the three made their way downstairs together.\n\nThe drawing-room, or \"long parlour\" as the Marristons called it,\ndeserved the latter name, for long it was. In fact it had originally\nbeen two if not three rooms, of which the end one was the most\nimportant, as it was considerably wider than the other part. It was the\n\"saloon\" of the house, where on more formal occasions the family\nreceived their guests, though in an ordinary way their manners and\ncustoms, as was the case in those days, while by no means \"free and\neasy,\" were simple and homely enough.\n\nBut a visit from Cousin Felicity, however sudden and unexpected, at once\nnecessitated gala gowns; the opening of the \"withdrawing-room\"; longer\nand more ceremonious meals, and all things in accordance with what the\nstrange guest considered due to her.\n\nFor the time being the upset concerning the luggage and the consequent\nhurry had caused both the new-comers to forget all about their\nfellow-visitor, and it was with no preoccupation of mind concerning her\nthat Paulina and Clodagh, escorted by Annot, made their way down the\nlong room, to where at the end the members of the family group, whose\ngreetings they had already received, were awaiting them. As they drew\nnear, their hostess approached.\n\n\"You have made good speed, dear Miss Paulina,\" she said kindly, \"dinner\nis not yet announced. In the meantime allow me to introduce you to our\nesteemed friend and relative, whose visit has happily coincided with\nyour own,\" and she took the young lady's hand and led her towards a\nlarge chair of state covered with magnificent brocade, on one side of\nthe fireplace, in which sat a small figure--small, but for that very\nreason perhaps among others--so startling was the contrast with its\ncostly attire and with its extraordinary dignity and stateliness--the\nvery reverse of insignificant or unnoticeable.\n\nPaulina half unconsciously drew back a little, slightly turning away.\nShe was naturally of a haughty disposition, added to which, adulation\nand flattery had helped to spoil her, and at once she felt annoyed at\nbeing led forward like a child, to be presented to a complete stranger,\nand this disagreeable sensation was increased by the fact that the\nfigure in the great chair remained motionless--motionless and mute. The\nsmall lady might have been a statue or a wax doll. But in spite of\nherself something made Paulina look straight at \"Cousin Felicity,\" and\nnow that she saw her at close quarters, the splendour of her jewels, the\npriceless lace in which she was draped, almost took away the younger\nwoman's breath. She half gasped--and then, feeling her eyes caught and\nheld as it were by the strange power of the piercing black ones,\ngleaming in the midst of the colourless little old face, Paulina,\nmistress of her emotions as she prided herself on being, Paulina, to\nwhom timidity and shyness were unknown, felt her cheeks crimson, and\nhardly realising what she was doing, she curtseyed low and\ndeferentially.\n\n\"Though, after all,\" as she said to herself a minute or two later, when\nshe had recovered her usual, somewhat arrogant self-possession, \"after\nall, hateful old cat though she is, she is an aged woman--too old to\nact these ridiculous travesties--and I hope I know what good breeding\ndemands of politeness to our elders.\"\n\nFor, as this mention of her later reflections shows, Paulina was by no\nmeans as yet out of the wood.\n\nThe ancient lady held out her glittering hand.\n\n\"Does she expect me to kiss it?\" the girl asked herself, when, to her\nhorror, came a reply to the unspoken query.\n\n\"No,\" said Cousin Felicity, as she touched the tips of Paulina's now\nextended fingers, \"no,\" and this was the first word she had uttered,\n\"she does not. But what she sets far before curtseys and deference to\nfine clothes and diamonds is respectful behaviour to the poor and aged.\nHow about the old peasant who presumed to intrude upon you this\nmorning?\"\n\nThen Paulina knew, and she shivered. But her courage was good. \"It was\nnot only what you think, Madam,\" she replied, \"you do me scarce justice.\nI desire to show respect to age. This morning I was taken aback. I was\nso newly roused.\"\n\nCousin Felicity bent her head, as if in royal pardon, though she did not\nspeak, and Paulina turning quickly, was glad to catch hold of Annot,\nwho with some of the others had drawn near in curiosity, though this was\ntempered by their familiarity with the strange old dame's eccentricity.\n\n\"You have met before?\" Annot whispered. \"She often frightens people at\nfirst,\" for she felt that her friend was trembling.\n\n\"I am not frightened,\" returned Paulina in the same tone. \"I was only\nstartled and--rather angry. I had forgotten all about what you told us.\nI will explain afterwards. I don't think people--especially old\nladies--should play tricks to catch others.\"\n\nAnnot smiled, but she herself looked nervous.\n\n\"Dear Paulina,\" she pleaded, \"for goodness sake, don't be angry. I told\nyou she was not to be counted in any way as an ordinary person. Don't\nfrown so. She may see it--oh no, she is now occupied with Clodagh. Just\nwatch.\"\n\nFor by this time it was the younger girl's turn to be led up to the\ngreat armchair.\n\nShe had been standing a little in the background, standing there\ndreamily, as if she were trying to remember something. But she did not\nseem timid or shy when at a touch on the arm from her hostess she came\nquietly forward, her sweet Irish blue eyes, looking almost black under\ntheir long lashes, lifted with a sort of gentle, half-bewildered\nenquiry, as she drew near to the formidable little old lady.\n\nAnd for the first time, as the keen, piercing glance of this redoubtable\npersonage fell upon the young girl, a smile, softening the hard\nexpression and marvellously rejuvenating the small dried-up features,\ncrept over Cousin Felicity's face.\n\n\"Welcome, my dear,\" she said, as she held out her hand in an inviting\nthough yet regal manner, and Clodagh, feeling, she knew not why,\nimpelled to do so, stooped and kissed it gently and respectfully.\n\n[Illustration: Stooped and kissed it gently and respectfully.]\n\n\"Thank goodness,\" murmured such of the family as were near enough to\nwatch the small drama, \"thank goodness, she has taken a fancy to the\nchild, and Clodagh is much more tactful than Paulina,\" for in their\nheart both Mrs. Marriston and her daughters had been trembling,\nespecially since the reproof which the elder girl had received.\n\n\"I am glad to thank you for your courtesy to a lonely and homely old\nfellow-traveller this morning,\" Cousin Felicity continued, and then\nClodagh's grave face brightened and a touch of colour came into it. She\nhad scarcely overheard what had passed between Paulina and the aged\nguest, or rather perhaps she had been in too absent a mood to take it\nin. But now a look of relief spread over her, and she answered in her\nusual frank and simple way.\n\n\"Oh!\" she said, \"I am so glad you got here comfortably. I think we had\nboth fallen asleep at the time you left the coach, and I--I was so sorry\nnot to have been of any service to you--I had no idea we were bound for\nthe same place,\" she added, with a little smile of surprise.\n\n\"Naturally,\" Cousin Felicity replied; \"that is why I so fully appreciate\nyour courtesy.\" And she gave an odd though not disagreeable little laugh\nas she went on: \"I hope you lost none of your goods and chattels on the\nway? You seemed to be somewhat overburdened.\"\n\nClodagh drew still nearer to the old lady.\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" she said. \"I am not surprised at your noticing it.\"\nPaulina was not near enough to overhear, \"We have a terrible number of\npackages,\" and her face grew anxious at the remembrance. \"It was that,\npartly, that made my cousin seem so cross,\" she went on, lowering her\nvoice. \"We were so crowded up. And I am so unused to travelling. I don't\nknow how I shall manage. Paulina is so kind to me, and of course I must\nlearn to be of real use to her.\"\n\nThe elder Miss Marriston, Thomasine by name, was standing near. She\nsmiled at Clodagh's sudden, almost childish outburst of\nconfidence--afterwards Clodagh felt at a loss to explain it to herself,\nfor as a rule she was by no means a chatterbox--and remarked, though\nwith a touch of deferential apology in her tone:\n\n\"Our Cousin Felicity is the genius of travelling in person. If she would\nteach you some of her experience, Miss Clodagh, you would indeed be\nfortunate. We always do say, you know, dear cousin, that you manage as\nif by magic.\"\n\nThe old lady smiled. She did not seem ill-pleased.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Clodagh, glancing almost with reverence at the exquisite\nyellowish lace, of cobweb-like texture, draping its owner's skirt, \"to\nsee all these lovely treasures of attire, one wonders how it can be so\nquickly arranged and re-arranged--and packed! For, as far as I remember,\nMadam, you carried but little with you.\"\n\nCousin Felicity smiled again.\n\n\"You are right,\" she said. \"I detest encumbrances. I travel with the\nsmallest amount of luggage possible. Not that this lace would add to\nit----\" and she passed her jewelled fingers over it fondly. \"All I am\nwearing could go through a wedding ring. It belonged to my--ah, well, we\nneed not say how far back among my ancestors it dates from.\"\n\n\"It was made in fairyland, I believe,\" murmured Clodagh, and then there\nstole across her memory some of the old tales and sayings she had heard\nin her nursery--how that the \"good folk,\" the \"little people,\" reckon\nnot age and time as we do--that five centuries is in fairyland but as\nfive years, if that, to us. And the story of little Bridget, whose human\nlife ebbed out \"between the dawn and morrow,\" poor little Bridget!\nrecurred to her with a slight shiver. It must have shown in her eyes as\nshe raised them again to her new friend's strange face. But what she\nread there reassured her in some mysterious way, and then, as if a door\nor window had suddenly opened in her mind, there flashed into her\nremembrance all that the landlady of the old inn had told her that very\nmorning about the mysterious and fitful lady in the neighbourhood.\n\n\"It is she herself,\" thought Clodagh. \"How extraordinary that I did not\nguess it before! But, fairy or no fairy, she wishes me nothing but\ngood,\" and a sweet, grateful smile lighted up the young girl's face,\nchasing away the first vague misgivings.\n\n\"Yes,\" came in a very soft whisper to her ears, \"yes, my dear, you know\nsomething about me, and before we part we must have some talk together,\"\nbut to this there was no time for her to reply, as at that moment dinner\nwas announced and the elder Mr. Marriston came forward to offer his arm\nto the venerable guest.\n\nSomehow, though she found herself for the first time in her life among\nstrangers, Clodagh did not feel shy or ill at ease. She had an\nunderlying consciousness that she was kindly regarded, for her own sake\nas well as to please her cousin. Paulina, who by this time had regained\nher self-possession, was gentler than her wont, and did not speak much.\nIndeed, though all passed pleasantly there was an indefinite feeling of\nformality and ceremony not usual in the cheerful and friendly family\ngroup.\n\n\"It is not half as lively and amusing with that old----\" \"cat,\" Paulina\nwas probably going to say but for a \"hush\" from Clodagh, for it was to\nher young cousin she was whispering on their way to the drawing-room.\n\"Well--with _her_ here,\" she continued. \"They are all so desperately in\nawe of her, I can't understand it.\"\n\n\"But do be careful,\" urged Clodagh. \"She may overhear, and you really\nshould be polite and respectful. As you say yourself, age alone demands\nit.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to be rude,\" Paulina replied, and she meant what she\nsaid, though in her heart she had not forgiven the reproof she had\nreceived, especially as she knew she had deserved it. But just as they\nwere entering the long parlour, Clodagh stopped her.\n\n\"Cousin,\" she said, \"I cannot rest with the thought of all our\nthings--yours especially--in such confusion upstairs. Will you allow me\nto go to our rooms now and arrange them, partly at least? I am sure Mrs.\nMarriston and her daughters will excuse me, if you explain to them.\"\n\nPaulina hesitated. She had a horror of seeming to treat her young\nrelation as an inferior, and yet she saw that it would really be kinder\nto agree. Just then Thomasine came up to them, and on Paulina's putting\nthe question to her she took Clodagh's part.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I think it would be far better than for this child to\nstay down till late, and then probably not get to bed for ever so\nlong.\" For the Marristons fully understood the position. So Clodagh,\nmuch relieved, bade Thomasine a cheerful good-night and ran off.\n\nShe worked hard--unpacking, separating, to some extent packing again,\nfor the weather was very hot and she knew that certain clothes could not\npossibly be required during the few days of their stay at the Priory.\nShe was quick and intelligent and sensible, still she was very young and\nher task was not an easy one, and but for her extreme anxiety to be of\nreal use to her cousin, she would almost have despaired of managing it.\n\n\"But it would never do for me to lose heart at the first start,\" she\nsaid to herself, \"and of course, unless I prove fit for the post,\nPaulina could not afford to keep me with her, as Lady Roseley explained.\nFor she is not _very_ rich, and it is such a blessing to be with her\ninstead of with strangers who knew nothing about me except that I was\npoor and homeless.\"\n\nSo she cheered up and worked on bravely. The evenings were long, for it\nwas barely past midsummer, and the dinner had been early, so she had\ntime enough to arrange her cousin's belongings, though she had scarcely\ntouched her own, when Paulina made her appearance yawning and wishing\nherself in bed.\n\n\"Good gracious, child!\" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of Clodagh,\n\"are you at it still? Why, I expected to find you undressed at least, if\nnot in bed. But I must say you seem to have a head on your shoulders. My\nthings look most methodically arranged. And how about your own?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Clodagh, much pleased, in spite of feeling very sleepy and\ntired, \"I shall soon get them done. I will not make any noise if you go\nto bed now, but I should like to feel things were tidy before----\"\n\nBut Paulina interrupted her.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" she said. \"I insist on your going to bed yourself. Just get\nout what is absolutely necessary. You can finish in the morning, and\nremember,\" she went on, for she was standing with the door open, and the\ncorridor was still encumbered, \"remember to ask the servants to pile up\nor carry away some of these boxes. One can scarcely get in and out of\nthe rooms. I wish your luggage were a little more concentrated. You have\nsuch a number of small cases and bags.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Clodagh agreed. \"You see I have never travelled any distance till\nnow,\" and she eyed her goods and chattels somewhat disconsolately.\n\n\"We must arrange about it,\" said Paulina vaguely. \"But now, get to bed\nquickly,\" and after all, Clodagh felt that she really was getting too\nsleepy to do more than was unavoidable, and in a short time both girls\nwere fast asleep, Clodagh's last waking thought being a resolve to get\nup very early indeed to complete her arrangements.\n\n\"I wish I could have got it all done to-night, but anyway the confusion\noutside could not be cleared till to-morrow.\"\n\nShe was tired and she slept soundly, still not quite dreamlessly. One\nvery queer experience she had, and even when she was wide-awake, and\ndaylight streaming in, she could not make up her mind if it had been\ndream or reality.\n\nThis was it, \"and,\" she said to herself, \"I am almost certain I was\nawake.\"\n\nIt was midsummer weather, as I said, so the window was wide open, and\nsuddenly through the silence Clodagh heard a familiar sound. It was that\nof bees humming. It grew nearer and nearer, and opening her eyes--or\ndreaming that she did so--she looked up. The room was flooded with\nmoonlight, and in it she perceived the source of the sound. Two large\nbees were buzzing about, very busy apparently, but as there were no\nflowers on the table or mantelpiece, Clodagh wondered sleepily what\ncould have attracted them.\n\n\"I hope they won't sting me,\" she thought, for the humming grew nearer,\nand then, strange to say, out of it gradually soft-whispering words\nshaped themselves.\n\n\"Don't wake her, whatever you do,\" said one bee. \"She is fast asleep and\nwe must obey orders.\"\n\n\"But we can't help humming,\" murmured the other.\n\n\"Well, hum gently. It will soothe her, and let us set to work, for there\nis plenty to do before daylight.\"\n\nThat was all she heard, and soothe her the sound must have done, for she\nknew nothing more till she really and unmistakably awoke, to see the\nsunshine--the lovely, clear early summer morning sunshine--pouring in,\nto hear the dear birds welcoming another happy beautiful day.\n\nClodagh started up. She had never felt fresher or brighter; all last\nnight's tiredness had gone. She was used to early rising, and felt that\nto stay lazily in bed was impossible.\n\n\"It would be delicious out-of-doors,\" she thought, \"but I _must_ finish\nthe tidying and sorting, if possible before Paulina awakes,\" and she\nsprang out of bed.\n\nBut--she rubbed her eyes--was she dreaming? The cupboards, of which\nthere were two in the old-fashioned room, the roomy chest of drawers,\nall stood open, as if to exhibit their contents and demand approval, and\nin them were arranged with the perfection of neatness and judiciousness\nall her possessions, last night in disorder and barely unpacked. And on\na chair lay her garments for the day, not only those she had herself\nplaced there, but a spotless cool white gown--much cooler than the black\none she had travelled with--the very one she had been hoping to get out\nand don that morning.\n\n\"Have I done it all in my sleep?\" she asked, and then some undefined\nfeeling made her open the door and peep out into the passage. Wonder of\nwonders! All the confusion had disappeared. There stood there, in\ndignified importance, two roomy, substantial trunks only, one of which\nshe recognised as her cousin's principal one, with her initials in small\nbrass nails on the lid, the other, similar in make and appearance, with\nthe first letters of her own two names marked in the same way. The very\nsort of thing she had begun to long for since seeing Paulina's.\n\nShe lifted the lid--a series of trays was disclosed, and examining\nfurther, she perceived at the bottom, most beautifully folded, all her\nown thicker clothing, gowns and woollens quite unsuitable for present\nwear, and as she went on in breathless excitement to peer into her\ncousin's, there was the same arrangement. The very garments she had\nherself put aside for the present, the evening before, lay there\nundisturbed, or rather, she suspected, far more exquisitely folded than\nshe had left them. And all the rest, the bandboxes and carpet-bags and\nunbusiness-like odds and ends she had brought over the sea, had\ndisappeared, as if by magic.\n\n\"And magic it is,\" she said to herself, for, as she stood there\nlistening, a clock in the distance struck five, not another sound or\nrustle was to be heard. Not a soul was as yet astir in the old house.\n\nClodagh danced back into her room.\n\n\"The fairies are afield,\" she sang to herself softly. Never had she felt\nso gay and light-hearted. \"I shall dress and run out into the garden,\"\nshe thought. \"There is nothing to keep me indoors. Everything is\nsafe\"--for the heavy despatch-box she knew to be in Paulina's keeping.\n\"What will the servants think when they see it?\"\n\nWhat they did think was that each thought the others had cleared away\nthe pile of the young ladies' luggage, leaving only what was required.\nOr at least, as no questions were asked, no remarks made, they probably\nthought so, if they thought about it at all! Perhaps their curiosity was\nput to sleep by some uncanny though not maleficent influence. Who can\nsay?\n\nAnd in a very short time Clodagh was ready, and hat in hand, looking\nlike the very spirit of the morning in person, she ran downstairs to\nfind the old hall-porter sleepily unbarring the great door, though,\nsleepy as he was, he could not restrain a smile of admiration and a\nrespectful \"You be early about, Miss,\" to which she laughingly replied,\n\"Who could help it, once they were awake, on such a morning?\"\n\nYet another surprise awaited her, as you shall hear.\n\nThe Priory grounds were fairly extensive and delightfully quaint. Great\nlaurel hedges, alternating with curiously high-clipped yews, and some\nmagnificent elms added to the impression of space, as well as to that\nsort of pleasant \"mystery\" without which no garden is thoroughly\nfascinating.\n\n\"What a lovely place to explore!\" said Clodagh to herself, as she turned\ndown one long shady path, streaked here and there with the early\nsun-rays filtering through the foliage. Then a sound reached her ears,\nwhich recalled her experience of the night before. It was the humming of\nbees. She stood still for a moment to listen, feeling as if she were on\nthe confines of some enchanted region. Then slowly, treading very\nsoftly, she went on. Yes--in a minute or two she saw at the end of the\npath a huge beautiful beehive, its inhabitants flying in and out,\nbuzzing away, like the busy creatures they are. And in front of it stood\na quaint little figure, whom Clodagh this time had no difficulty in at\nonce recognising as the mysterious \"Cousin Felicity\" again.\n\nHer laces and diamonds of the evening before seemed a dream, though her\ndress was dainty enough, much finer in quality than the very homely\nattire in which Clodagh had first seen her. It was a gown of flowered\nchintz, of the delicate colouring and excellent material that one now\nand again finds treasured among family relics--such as \"my\ngreat-grandmother's\" or even \"great-great-grandmother's dresses.\" And\nthe skirt was drawn through the pocket-holes in the orthodox\nold-fashioned way, showing the pink cotton petticoat and the neat little\nhigh-heeled shoes. The whole figure, as she stood with her back to the\nnew-comer, was so trim and slim and youthful, that it gave almost a\nshock to Clodagh when the little lady turned suddenly and she caught\nsight of the tiny, withered, white face, surmounted by a kind of mob\ncap, from beneath which escaped a few soft grey curls. Yet it was\nevident that Cousin Felicity was in very good health and spirits, for\nshe smiled beamingly as she accosted the young girl.\n\n\"The top of the morning to you, my dear,\" she said. \"That's your\nnational greeting, is it not? I knew you were not a lie-abed. Well, and\nhow wags the world with you? I have been visiting my friends here, you\nsee. We understand each other, these clever little creatures and I,\" and\nshe fixed her bright eyes on Clodagh.\n\nFor a moment or two Clodagh stood silent. Then a smile broke over her\nface.\n\n\"Madam, lady, what shall I call you?\" she exclaimed. \"I must say it. I\nknow the truth. You _are_ a fairy. It is you I have to thank for what\nhas been done to help me in the night!\"\n\n\"Call me what you please, my dear, when we are alone,\" said the old\nlady, \"but keep what you know, or suspect--rather more than the actual\nfact, by the bye,\" she added--\"keep it to yourself. I know you are\ndiscreet, otherwise I could not be of service to you as I intend to be.\nNow tell me, child, what are your troubles or anxieties, for some I know\nyou have----\"\n\n\"I don't feel as if I had any at all this morning,\" Clodagh interrupted\nlaughingly.\n\n\"Ah, well--so much the better, it shows a healthy nature,\" was the\nreply. \"But, tell me, is that very autocratic young woman, your cousin,\ngood to you? Are you happy to be with her?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, truly I am,\" Clodagh replied eagerly. \"That is to say, I feel\nsure I am going to be so. You see we only met again yesterday, after not\nhaving seen each other for several years, not since I have been\ngrown-up. But I must explain. Paulina is very kind. I am sorry she was\nrude to you yesterday. She was sorry herself afterwards, but she is only\nquick-tempered and spoilt. She has a kind heart. When my dear\ngrandmother died I should have been homeless, forced to earn my living\nwith strangers, but for her,\" and by this time Clodagh's eyes were\nfilled with tears.\n\nCousin Felicity nodded her head slowly, and in a moment or two she spoke\nagain.\n\n\"Did you love your Irish home very dearly?\" she asked.\n\n\"Did I? _Do_ I, rather,\" the girl replied. \"Oh, dear lady, I adore it!\nBut it is mine no longer. It belongs to strangers, it is best for me not\nto think of it; though I have known all my life that I should have to\nleave it when Granny left me, I don't think I realised it. That is why I\nam glad to travel. It is interesting, and takes my thoughts off, to see\nnew places and people. I am glad that Paulina travels so much, if\nonly----\" and here she gave a deep sigh.\n\n\"Ah, ha,\" cried the little old lady, but though slightly mocking, her\ntone was not the least unkindly, \"now we are getting to your troubles.\nWhat is that deep sigh about?\"\n\n\"It's my fear that I can't manage things properly for Paulina,\" said\nClodagh, \"and if so, I must leave her. She is not _very_ rich. She can't\nafford to buy me pretty gowns and things, as she means to do, if I\ncannot save her having a maid. She cannot take two about with her. Oh,\nit's the luggage! Do you know, yesterday I thought I had lost her\njewellery--I'll never forget my horror!\"\n\n\"Would you like to know how _I_ travel? Shall I show you?\" said her new\nfriend.\n\nClodagh looked at her wonderingly.\n\n\"Indeed I would,\" she said. \"But then,\" she went on, \"though I am afraid\nyou do not like me to say it, I _know_ you are a----\"\n\n\"S-sh. Never mind about that. Come with me,\" was the reply.\n\nIt was still very early. No one was about. Cousin Felicity took the\ngirl's hand and turned to re-enter the house by a different way from\nthat by which Clodagh had come. But before doing so, she stopped a\nmoment and waved her tiny hand as if in adieu to the beehive.\n\n\"Thanks many,\" her companion heard her murmur. \"You did your work well\nlast night,\" and to Clodagh she went on, with a twinkle in her bright\neyes, \"Were you pleased with what you found this morning--the new trunk\nand all?\"\n\n\"Pleased!\" exclaimed the girl rapturously, \"I couldn't believe my eyes.\nNot that I mind work,\" she went on, \"I think I can soon learn to pack\nand unpack cleverly. It is the responsibility of all the things, the\nterror of losing them, that distresses me.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said her friend, \"I understand. I do not mean to do all your\nwork for you. It is the industrious and active, not the idle and lazy,\nthat\"--and here she gave her funny twinkling smile again--\"that _they_\nhelp, as all the stories you have heard over the sea always tell. You\nshall see what I can do, and what you must do yourself.\"\n\nBy this time they had reached a side entrance to the house. The door\nstood open; a small staircase faced them, up which with wonderful\nquickness, considering her great age, Cousin Felicity sprang, followed\nby Clodagh, and crossing a landing, opened the door of a room, inviting\nthe girl to enter with her.\n\nIt was a pleasant room; the first impression it made on Clodagh was of\nwhiteness--and exquisite neatness. It matched the little old lady to\nperfection.\n\n\"This is where I always am, when I visit these kind people,\" she said.\n\"No one ever has this room but myself. And,\" she went on in a low voice\nas if speaking to herself, \"who, if I tried to tell it, would believe\nfor how many generations it has been appropriated to me?\"\n\nClodagh felt a thrill of awe as she caught the mysterious words. But in\nanother moment Cousin Felicity had turned to her briskly, pointing to a\nneat, good-sized trunk standing in front of the fireplace.\n\n\"That is all _my_ luggage,\" she announced. \"It holds more than Paulina's\nfine lady's maid would have got into half-a-dozen like it, because _I_\nknow how to pack. But--look at it well.\"\n\nClodagh stared at it obediently.\n\n\"Shut your eyes.\" She did so. Then it seemed to her that she heard a\nmurmur of words.\n\n\"Open.\" Clodagh again obeyed. And this time, stare she did, for--the box\nwas no longer there, it had vanished from view!\n\nShe was too astonished to speak.\n\n\"Hold out your hand,\" was the next command.\n\nCousin Felicity laid something on the outstretched palm. Clodagh gazed\nat it in amazement and admiration. It was a miniature trunk, evidently\nof the finest make. Never had she seen such a perfect toy of its kind,\nand it was an exact facsimile of her strange old friend's substantial\nbox, which a minute before had been standing in front of her in the most\nmatter-of-fact way. It was small--not above a couple of inches in\nlength, and half as much in width and depth, but curiously heavy. It\nmight almost have been a small block of lead, fashioned to represent a\nLiliputian portmanteau, and still Clodagh stood there staring at it,\nwithout speaking.\n\n\"That is how _I_ travel,\" said the mysterious little lady at last. \"It\ncontains all my belongings, just as I told you the other--or rather\nitself in its other proportions--does. See, I slip it in here,\" and she\nheld out the black hand-bag, or reticule, which the girl had noticed in\nthe coach, and taking the little box from Clodagh she did as she said,\n\"I draw the strings, I hang it over my arm,\" accompanying her\nexplanations by the appropriate actions, \"and there I am, ready to\njourney from one end of Europe to the other, or farther still, with no\nanxiety.\"\n\nHer young protegee lifted her eyes.\n\n\"It is too marvellous, too delightful for words!\" she exclaimed.\n\nThe little old lady smiled graciously.\n\n\"I knew you would say so,\" she replied. \"Well, now, I can extend this\nmagical power to you, on two conditions. You must keep the secret,\nabsolutely and entirely, and you must do your own work perfectly. There\nmust be no untidiness or hurry-scurry; you must never leave things\nbehind, or tear or crumple them--if so, your carelessness will bring its\nown punishment, for it would prevent the spell's working, and even\nI--fairy or witch as you think me----\"\n\n\"No, no,\" Clodagh interrupted eagerly, \"not witch. You are too kind and\ncharming to be that.\"\n\n\"Ah, well, we can leave aside the question of what or who I am. The\npoint is what I can _do_, and what I cannot. And counteract the working\nor not working of the spell if the rules are broken, is beyond my\npower.\"\n\n\"But I _will_ keep them,\" exclaimed Clodagh. \"That is to say, I will do\nmy very best to be most neat and methodical. Granny trained me to be\nneat. And I will keep the secret; that I promise, _only_----\" and her\nface fell as a sudden idea disconcerted her.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"If Paulina suspects anything? If she notices, and thinks there is\nsomething strange about it all?\"\n\nCousin Felicity smiled.\n\n\"I will see to that. You need not be afraid. If you fulfil your part,\nyou will have _no_ trouble, as regards Paulina or any one else. Come\nnow--I will go with you to your rooms to explain all, before any one is\nabout. But first--close your eyes for a moment. Yes----\" and when\nClodagh opened them, there stood the trunk again, as she had first seen\nit!\n\nShe followed the old lady down a passage or two, and up some steps, till\nat the end of the corridor she saw that they were in the part of the\nhouse familiar to her. Cousin Felicity stopped in front of the two\ntrunks, Paulina's and Clodagh's new one, standing just outside the doors\nof their rooms, and glanced at them approvingly. She was just going to\nspeak when the girl touched her on the arm.\n\n\"I am afraid,\" she began timidly, \"I am afraid that Paulina may be awake\nby now, and if she heard us and looked out----?\"\n\nHer friend nodded reassuringly. Then she noiselessly opened the door of\nthe sleeper's room and stepped in, Clodagh close behind her. It was\nalmost dark inside, for Paulina was not one of the people who like to\nsee the dawn gradually creeping up--she always had her blinds drawn\ndown. Still it was light enough for Clodagh to see the mysterious\nvisitor make her way, swiftly and soundlessly, to the side of the bed.\nThen she stooped over the pretty face lying on the pillow, touched the\nclosed eyelids softly, murmuring something inaudible, then came back to\nClodagh waiting near the entrance and led the way outside again, closing\nthe door behind them.\n\n\"_That_ is quite safe,\" she said, smiling. \"Have no fears for the\npresent or the future. You will have no difficulties, I assure you.\nNow--\" and she stood before the two closed boxes. \"See,\" she said, \"and\nlisten. Whenever you have packed them neatly and perfectly, sure that\nnothing is forgotten, you lock as usual, deposit the keys safely, then\nstand in front of each in turn, touch the initials with your\nfore-finger--you have each three, 'P. O'B.' and 'C. O'B.'--saying slowly\nand clearly as you do so\n\n    \"One, two, three,\n    Dwindle, says Felicity.\n\n\"Then close your eyes for a moment, and you will see--hold, I will show\nyou now. Shut your eyes.\" Clodagh did so. \"Open.\" She obeyed, and there\nin front of her lay, so small that at the first moment she scarcely\nperceived them, two miniature editions of her own and Paulina's trunks,\nbrass nails, letters and all.\n\n\"Feel them,\" said her companion.\n\nClodagh stooped and picked them up, her eyes sparkling with eagerness.\nThey were heavy, certainly, but less so than the old lady's own one.\n\n\"You have a hand-bag?\" this personage enquired.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" replied Clodagh, and in a moment she had fetched it. It held\nthe toy trunks perfectly.\n\n\"Take them out again,\" came the order.\n\n\"Now,\" her friend continued, \"listen. When you reach your destination,\nwithdraw them from your reticule, place them wherever is most\nconvenient, touch the letters again, beginning with the last, and say\nthis time\n\n    \"Three, two, one,\n    Journey's done,\n\nand--all will be as you desire.\"\n\nShe smiled as she spoke.\n\n\"You may test it at once,\" she said. \"Place them on the floor. Now----\"\n\n    \"Three, two, one,\n    Journey's done,\"\n\nrepeated Clodagh, touching the letters, as she did so, \"B,\" the last,\nfirst. Then she shut her eyes, and when she looked again--yes--there\nthey were, the two neat capacious trunks, as before.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, with a sigh of delight. \"It is too good to be true! How\ncan I thank you?\"\n\nBut as she looked up, holding out her hands in gratitude, lo and\nbehold--Cousin Felicity had vanished. Glancing round quickly, however,\nClodagh fancied she saw a shadow of something disappearing at the turn\nin the passage. Whether this was so or not, who can say?\n\n[Illustration: Lo and behold--Cousin Felicity had vanished.]\n\n\"I will thank her again when we meet downstairs,\" thought the girl,\nlittle imagining that this was not to be.\n\nJust then the door behind her opened, and Paulina, her eyes still but\nhalf-awake, peeped out.\n\n\"Oh, child,\" she said, \"is it late? You up and dressed already! I must\nhurry.\"\n\n\"There is plenty of time,\" Clodagh replied. \"It is still early.\"\n\n\"How well and bright you look!\" Paulina exclaimed. \"You must have slept\nwell. So unlike my last travelling companion--that silly Pelagie--not of\ncourse, dear, that I mean to compare you with a maid-servant--but the\nairs she gave herself! She could never sleep the first night in a\nstrange place, nor the last, because she was nervous about the\npack----Oh,\" she broke off, \"I see you've got rid of all the old bags\nand bandboxes. What a good thing! I didn't know you had such a nice\nsensible trunk, so neat, and just like mine.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the young girl. \"It really holds more than I require. I have\nplanned it all, Paulina. You shall never have any trouble about the\nluggage if you will leave the whole to me.\"\n\n\"I shall only be too thankful to do so,\" said her cousin lazily. \"I\nthink you are a genius, my dear. The way you have arranged my dresses\nand everything is simply perfection.\"\n\nHalf an hour or so later, the two, summoned by the breakfast gong, made\ntheir way downstairs, where most of the family were already assembled,\nand as the others dropped in, Clodagh looked round eagerly for her\nnew-old friend. But come she did not, and after a short delay Mrs.\nMarriston turned to her elder daughter.\n\n\"Thomasine, my dear,\" she said. \"I think you had better go upstairs to\nenquire for Cousin Felicity and offer to escort her. I scarcely like to\nbegin breakfast without her, for fear of seeming to lack respect.\"\n\nFor those old-fashioned days were very ceremonious and any want of\ndeference to the eccentric old lady was not to be thought of. Thomasine\nwent at once, but in a very few minutes returned alone, holding a scrap\nof paper in her hand, looking somewhat disconcerted, though she was half\nlaughing also.\n\n\"She has gone!\" she exclaimed, \"bag, baggage and all, leaving this.\"\n\nMrs. Marriston took the paper eagerly. \"Oh, _can_ we have offended her?\"\nshe said anxiously, but a moment after, she too laughed. \"No, I see it\nis all right,\" she went on, reading aloud the note in her hand.\n\n\"'Farewell for the present, kind friends,' it said. 'A sudden summons\nto----'--no, I can't decipher the word--'cuts short my visit. Fare you\nwell, one and all.'\"\n\nThey looked at each other. Annot took the paper from her mother. \"No,\"\nshe agreed, \"I cannot read it. But we never do know where she goes or\nhow she goes! It may be Kamschatka or the moon.\"\n\n\"Or fairyland,\" murmured Clodagh.\n\n\"All the same,\" said Paulina, who, for her part, was by no means sorry\nfor the mysterious lady's flight, \"it cannot but be rather trying to\nhave such a guest. She expects to be received with regal honours, and\nthen off she goes like 'old Mother Goose when she wanted to wander.'\"\n\nThe others laughed.\n\n\"My dear Paulina,\" said Annot, \"you are a _young_ 'Mother Goose'\nyourself, with your love of travelling.\"\n\n\"Quite so,\" Paulina agreed. \"But you will allow that I give my\nhospitable friends _some_ notice of my intentions. And, after all,\" she\nadded, \"some day, when Clodagh and I have had enough of wandering, we\nshall settle down, no doubt.\"\n\n\"And, to do our late guest justice,\" said Mrs. Marriston, \"erratic as\nshe is, her visits have never brought us anything but good luck. Her\ncrossing the threshold is always beneficent. This very morning we have\nexcellent news from India of our dear Humphrey, who, we heard by the\nlast mail, was seriously ill. He has quite recovered.\"\n\nShe spoke of a younger son in the--in those days--_very_ far-off East.\n\nClodagh had glanced up with quick interest when Paulina alluded to \"some\nday settling down.\" Her feelings at present were very mingled. She\nscarcely understood them herself. She was ready keenly to enjoy the\nnovelty and exhilaration of travel, seeing new places and people, and\nnow that her one misgiving had been so marvellously removed, her spirits\nrose high. But still--she had not yet been away a week from her own old\nhome, hers no longer, and already there were moments when, if she closed\nher eyes, she saw in fancy the dear rugged walls of Grey Rocks--the\nscene of her own and Paulina's childhood--and heard the splash of the\nwaves at the foot of the cliffs, and then she would feel the tears\ncreeping into her eyes, and she thought to herself, \"I suppose it is\nwhat is called 'home-sickness,' but I must not give way to it. If only I\ncould hope some day to go there again!\"\n\nIt was not a very ambitious hope, for Grey Rocks was but a small domain,\nand had Clodagh's father lived it might have still been their own.\n\nIn the meantime, however, she greatly enjoyed the stay at the Priory,\nand every day she grew cleverer with regard to her duties. She practised\nfolding and arranging Paulina's many garments till she really reached\nperfection, and she was so methodical and careful, yet never fussy or\noverwhelmed, that Paulina declared she had never been so splendidly\nlooked after in her life. So far this was most satisfactory. Still, when\nthe week to which their visit had been extended drew to its close, it\nmust be confessed that Cousin Felicity's young protegee was not without\nnervousness as to the working of the spell.\n\n\"Suppose,\" she thought, \"suppose I had dreamt it all!\" But then her\nglance fell on her own beautiful new trunk--\"No, no,\" she added, \"of\ncourse it was real and true.\"\n\nAnd when the morning of their departure came, nothing could have\nexceeded her care to remember everything.\n\nShe waited till Paulina, fully attired for the journey, had gone\ndownstairs for a few last minutes with her hosts, then she rapidly\ndeposited the precious despatch-box in a corner of her own trunk, in\nwhich there was still room; closed and locked both; recited as directed\nthe words of the spell, shut her eyes, and waited, as before.\n\nYes--all was right. There lay the miniature luggage, and in another\nmoment both toy boxes were safe in her reticule, and with light feet and\na light heart she ran down to join the others, just as the chariot which\nwas to take them to the nearest posting-house drew up at the door.\n\n\"Everything is ready,\" she said to Paulina. \"I have seen to the\nluggage,\" and Paulina nodded carelessly.\n\n\"The ladies' things have gone on in a cart, I suppose?\" asked one of the\nMarristons. The dignified butler replied that he understood it had been\nseen to, the truth being that he had not thought about it; and on his\nside the old hall-porter took for granted that the housemaids had had it\nconveyed down the back-stairs, that is to say if _he_ thought about it\nat all!\n\nAnyway, as the mysterious lady had promised, so it fell out. Clodagh was\ntroubled with no enquiries, no interference.\n\nAnd arrived at St. Aidan's Wells, where they were to spend some weeks,\nall continued satisfactory. Once, it must be confessed, on their way,\nClodagh had a fright. For they had to make two breaks in the long\njourney, spending one night at each, and on the second occasion, after\nClodagh had closed and locked and repeated the spell, lo and behold, it\nrefused to act! She started in terror, then her eyes fell on her own\nlittle slippers, which she had forgotten to pack. In a moment she had\nrepaired the mistake, and then--yes, all went as before.\n\n\"But,\" said the girl to herself, \"I must be _more_ than careful. For\npossibly a second lapse on my part might not be forgiven.\"\n\nThey remained at the watering-place for a month or two, then started off\nagain; this time for a lively seaside town where Paulina had arranged to\nmeet friends; then, as the autumn drew on, to country-houses in the\nhunting districts, for the elder girl was a good horsewoman, as indeed\nwas Clodagh also. What true Irish girl is not?\n\nIt was all very pleasant and exciting and the cousins enjoyed it, yet\nsometimes Paulina declared herself tired and wishful for a rest, even\nthough her journeys were accomplished with the smallest possible\ntrouble. The variety of their visits called of course for constant\nrenewal of dresses and additions to them, but never did the two\nspell-bound trunks seem too full, and every time she packed and\nunpacked, Clodagh thought with inexpressible gratitude of the \"fairy\nlady,\" as to herself she called her, and her bestowal of the strange\nsecret.\n\n\"But for her, I could not have managed,\" she often reflected. \"I should\nhave had to give it up--it would not have been fair to Paulina, and then\nwhere could I have gone, for home in my own country I have none? And oh,\nhow, through all the novelty and amusement and excitement of\ntravelling, in spite of the kindness I meet with, oh how I sometimes\nlong to be in dear grandmother's old turret room, listening to the faint\nwhirr of her spinning-wheel, and the louder sound of the waves breaking\non the cliffs below! I can feel the breeze that always blew in if the\ncasement in the deep window-seat was open; I can taste the salt flavour\nof the spray that sometimes on stormy days flew up to where I sat! Oh\ndear old home! I wonder if Paulina ever feels about it in the least as I\ndo?\" and then she would fall to wishing that she could somehow earn\nmoney enough to buy back the old \"eyrie,\" and be its little chatelaine.\n\"How I would enjoy receiving Paulina, and making _her_ enjoy it!\"\n\nBut for these day-dreams she had not much leisure, and she knew that she\nshould not indulge in them. Still the longing was always there, and as\ntime went on it grew more persistent and intense.\n\n\"It is just home-sickness,\" thought Clodagh, and she felt that she must\nnot give way to it.\n\n\"I wish I could meet 'Cousin Felicity' again,\" she often said to\nherself. \"She was so wise. I am sure she would advise me how to keep\ncheerful and content. And yet she must have understood, for I remember\nher asking me if I loved my home very dearly.\"\n\nThe weeks and months and almost the years--for one had fully gone, and\nthe second since Clodagh's arrival on this side of the water was well on\nits way--passed, and then one day came little looked-for tidings.\n\nThe cousins were just then again at St. Aidan's, which Paulina, who had\ngreat faith in its waters, made a point of visiting once or twice a\nyear. One morning, when Clodagh came in from doing some little\ncommissions on the Parade, she found her friend, pale as death, half\nfainting in her chair, an open letter in stiff, formal writing on her\nknee.\n\n\"Clodagh, oh Clodagh,\" she exclaimed, \"read, read. Who could have dreamt\nof it?\"\n\nAnd truly her distress was not to be wondered at, for the news was\nappalling, being nothing less but that of the poor young woman's almost\ntotal ruin by the failure of a bank. Clodagh for a moment felt stunned,\nbut she soon collected herself and did her best to comfort her cousin.\n\n\"Take courage, dear Paulina,\" she said. \"There is no need for despair.\nYou have still enough for comfort of a simple kind, and I will work for\nyou. It will be my turn to repay your generosity.\"\n\n\"Dear child,\" murmured her poor cousin, all her high spirit broken, \"you\nhave already far more than repaid anything I have done for you. But\ndon't leave me, promise me. If we must starve, let it be together.\"\n\n\"We shall not starve,\" said Clodagh cheerfully. \"If--oh, Paulina, I\nwonder if you could make up your mind to live at Grey Rocks. My old\nnurse would take us in. She has a little farm and a nice clean house.\nGranny gave it to her and furnished it. We could live there on almost\nnothing, and every one would know who we were and be good to us.\" Her\neyes actually sparkled at the prospect.\n\nAnd after a little Paulina caught some of the younger girl's spirit.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"it is the best thing we can do. I have none but happy\nremembrances of the old place.\"\n\nSo Clodagh wrote to the friend of her grandmother who had been her\nguardian, asking him to see her nurse and arrange it. Writing direct\nwould have been useless, as the simple woman had never learnt to read.\nAnd as quickly as the slow mails of those days could bring it, came Mr.\nFitzgerald's reply. More than a reply indeed, for he began the letter by\nsaying that he had pen in hand to write to her when her request reached\nhim, for he had an extraordinary communication to make.\n\n\"Grey Rocks, my dear Clodagh,\" he wrote, \"is yours, your own property.\nIt has again been for sale, as the late purchaser inherited unexpectedly\na large property and did not care to retain the smaller one, and on the\nvery day before I heard from you, a certain firm of lawyers, well known\nto me and entirely trustworthy, sent over a confidential clerk to\narrange for the purchase for yourself--Miss Clodagh O'Beirne--of the\nentire little property, as a gift, an absolute gift from an unknown\nfriend, on one condition only, that you will never seek to discover the\ngiver. I rejoiced inexpressibly, but my rejoicing is doubled and trebled\nsince the receipt of your distressing news this morning. Surely never\nwas a kind deed more appropriate. All is already in train, and whenever\nit suits you to return, you, accompanied I hope by Miss Paulina\nO'Beirne, will be welcomed with heartfelt joy by us all.\"\n\nClodagh's delight may be imagined, and to Paulina also the news was an\nimmense relief.\n\n\"Who can be the unknown friend?\" she exclaimed, adding, however, \"But as\nyou must never try to find out, perhaps it is better not to speak of\nit.\"\n\n\"Much better,\" said Clodagh, and they never did.\n\nAnd a happy home old Grey Rocks proved. It was but seldom they cared to\nleave it. But when they did \"want to wander,\" and with good management\ntheir joint means were enough to enable them to do so now and then, you\nmay be sure that their only luggage was the two well-tested trunks,\nwhose marvellous properties never failed. Clodagh, of course, in her\nheart had her own secret belief as to the identity of her benefactor or\nbenefactress, but the mysterious \"fairy lady\" she never saw again. And\nwhether her visits to the Marristons at the Priory continued or not, I\ncannot say.\n\nNor can I tell you the after history of the cousins, though something\nwhispers to me that their lives were happy. But it all happened a long\ntime ago. I cannot go over to Grey Rocks, for I do not know, to tell the\ntruth, in what part of old Ireland it stands. Possibly still, in some\nforgotten corner of a deserted attic are hidden away the enchanted\ntrunks, no one guessing their fairy powers! Who can say, though I am\nsure most of us wish that they, or others of their kind, belonged to us.\nHow delightful it would be!\n\n\nTHE END","title":"Fairies Afield","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":52432}