Chapter II: Part 2

"Very well and thank you, dear," Linde replied. "I will sit here in father's comfortable old chair till the time comes for me to go. And I will promise to drink all the soup and to put on all my wraps, if you, Aria, will go to bed as usual and try to sleep till I come back again. The only thing that would make me lose courage would be to leave you standing at the door looking after me. I may sleep myself. I daresay I shall, if I know you are in bed. For I am certain I shall wake in good time. As to that I have no fear."

Rather reluctantly, Aria consented to do as Linde wished, on condition that the little girl gave her promise to come to her at once on her return, and to arouse her if by chance she were sleeping.

Linde sat by the fire and listened to the ticking of the old clock, and the occasional fall of a cinder, till her eyes grew drowsy and she dozed. Though not conscious of being really asleep, she felt as if but a few minutes had passed, when the clock striking--more loudly than usual, it seemed to her--made her start.

"One, two, three," she counted, on to eleven.

"Yes, actually eleven," she said to herself. "I have had a nice long sleep and I feel quite fresh, and it is time to be off."

She drank the soup, and wrapped herself up; and after laying a large log on the fire, there to smoulder till she came back, she softly opened the door and stepped out, closing it again, though happily, in that peaceful and friendly part of the world, there was no need for bars or bolts.

A little exclamation of surprise escaped her as she glanced about her. It was full moon--the garden and the open space between it and the beginning of the forest were flooded with light. Somehow she had not expected this. In fact, relying upon the mysterious guidance and help which she felt sure would be given to her, she had not troubled herself beforehand about how it was all to be managed, and the sisters went so early to bed that they were often asleep before moonrise, if it were late.

Linde smiled to herself with pleasure and ran gaily through the garden and along the field-path. And for some little way inside the forest her route was quite clear. But after a while it grew darker. The trees became more dense, and denser still she knew they would be the farther she advanced. So she walked more slowly, looking well about her, and now and then pressing the three precious feathers in the front of her bodice.

"The great thing is not to miss the little path," she kept repeating, and after she had walked what seemed a considerable way, she began to fear she had done so.

Then for the first time her courage threatened to fail her, and her heart took to beating much faster than was pleasant. She stood still. Strange uncanny sounds seemed in the air. Wailings far off among the trees; faint groans and stealthy rustlings as if some weird creatures were trying to get near her, a sudden sharp screech--it was only an owl, but that the child did not know!--and then the very curious, very thin and minute squeal of a bat, so seldom audible to human ears.

"Oh dear," whispered Linde. "Robin, have you tricked me? I don't know where I am, and though it is so lonely, I seem to feel invisible creatures all about me. Oh, robin, you didn't tell me it would be so difficult to find the way."

Then something touched her foot; she gave a little scream, till looking down she perceived a point of light just in front of her, and heard a well-known voice.

"Foolish child," it said. "You might trust me. This is the entrance to the path. You have only to follow me."

"Are you carrying a lamp--a fairy lamp?" asked Linde in a tone of great relief. "Why--I could fancy it was a glow-worm, only it is far too late in the year."

"You are right," said her guide. "It is a glow-worm. We take care of them--they sleep down below all the winter. But I woke up this fellow on purpose. He is quite comfortable on my back. Now we must make haste. Follow me steadily till we come to the magic circle. Then you must act for yourself--you know what to do."

He flew forward--near enough to the ground for Linde to keep the tiny light well in view. And to her surprise she found she could make her way quite easily without stumbling or hesitation, and now and then a faint whiff of scent reached her, as if to increase her confidence, though whether it was wafted back from the redbreast's wings or upwards from the little bunch of feathers, she could not have told.

And at last--for, after all, making your way in the dark is very monotonous work--the light stopped just in front of her, and she realised that she was standing before the thickly growing bushes which hedged the clearing. And before she had time to wonder how to push her way through, the shrubs seemed to divide, as if held back by invisible hands, and through the opening thus made, Linde caught sight of the magic circle gleaming like silver in the moonlight.

Her guide had vanished, but now without hesitation she ran forward, till she reached the central spot, where the rose-bush had risen to view, and whence she had been told she would find her way to the unknown regions below.

She stood still for a moment or two, somewhat dazzled by the sudden radiance, soft and lovely though it was. Then she stooped and examined the ground, but the smooth, even turf showed not the least sign of an opening of any kind, such as she had half expected to see. As she stood up again her fingers touched the front of her dress and she remembered the feathers.

"I am to tap with them," she reminded herself. "But not till the fairy clock strikes twelve. Shall I ask what time it is now? No, I think it is better to wait quietly. I am sure I am not too late, but I think it must be nearly midnight."

She felt curiously calm, and very wide-awake. There was not the very slightest sound to be heard--a complete contrast to the surrounding forest--not a rustle, not a murmur, never had Linde before realised what utter silence could be. She almost felt as if she herself should not move a finger, scarcely even breathe. And when in a little she became conscious that her heart was again beating much faster than its wont, she felt as if she must press it tightly to make it be quiet. And the gesture once more recalled the feathers. She drew them out.

"Best have them ready," she thought.

Then she stood motionless.

And suddenly, coming upwards to her, and yet sounding in the silent air as if all around her, came the fairy chimes--one, two, three, four, for the completed hour, and then the sweet musical deeper note, twelve times repeated.

Linde was all alert.

She stooped at once and tapped three times with the three tiny feathers.

And then what exactly happened she could not have told. She felt herself lifted a little way and made somehow or other to sit down on what seemed a soft cushion. It was really a thick, round sod of turf, and as soon as she was seated on it, it began to descend--down, down, making her at first feel rather giddy, though it moved slowly. She shut her eyes, and the giddiness left her. Then she opened them, but all seemed darkness for some seconds, till a faint light began to creep up, growing brighter as her strange journey continued, and at last steadying into a pleasant glow, not glaring or bewildering, but clear and bright, so as to show all surrounding objects distinctly.

Linde sprang to her feet in delight. She was in the sweetest place she had ever dreamed of. Sweet in every sense, for it was a small garden of the beautiful rose-bushes, like the one the robin had shown her. And the scent was the exquisite one so familiar to her.

She was standing at the entrance to a sort of bower, or niche, in the midst of the fragrant bushes, and glancing into it she saw that there was a little hillock in its centre, and on this hillock were perched what at first seemed to her hundreds of redbreasts. In reality, I think there were about fifty--all motionless, till from their midst flew out one, whom by some instinct Linde recognised as her old friend.

"Birds," he said, for, to the fairy-touched ears of the child, chirps were words, "birds! She has come. And the time has come. Friends, bid her welcome."

And a lovely welcome it was which poured from the many little throats.

"Thank you, dear robins," said Linde, feeling sure that she was expected to say something, "thank you, dear birds. You know I love you, and I do hope you will soon come to live in the forest again. But now please tell me what it is you want me to do."

There was a sudden loud flutter of wings. All the robins at the same moment flew upwards from the hillock and perched themselves in clusters among the rose-trees which formed the bower. Only one remained on the hillock. Linde knew him for her guide. Beside him lay a small bright object. It was a finely made and polished spade.

He touched it with one of his claws.

"Take this, Linde," he said solemnly, "and dig. But first, stroke it with the three feathers."

"Where am I to dig?" asked the little girl, as she obeyed him.

"Here of course," was the reply, "here. It is the tomb of our ancestor, where for fifty years he has lain entranced."

Linde lifted the spade. It was beautifully light.

"What a dear little tool it is!" she thought to herself. "I wish they would let me keep it. It would be lovely for careful digging round the delicate tiny roots that are so easily damaged."

But these reflections she kept to herself, for she felt the fifty pairs of bright eyes upon her. Just at present it was a question of doing what she was told.

So she stroked the spade with her tiny feather posy, and then stepped forward close to the green mound. In her heart she felt doubtful as to whether the toy spade would be strong enough to cut through the turf. But as the robin flew up to a neighbouring branch, thus leaving the coast quite clear for her operations, there was nothing for it but to try. And to her satisfaction the blade glided through the sods almost without any effort of hers. In fact it seemed to direct her movements, so that in a very short time a neat round hole was made in the little hillock, revealing a sort of nest of the well-known dried rose-leaves, in the midst of which lay the tiny body of a--to all appearance dead--robin redbreast.

"Lift him," whispered her friend, evidently in the greatest excitement.

Linde did so, carefully and almost reverently. He was a most beautiful bird, a king of his kind. His feathers were smooth, his breast rich in colouring, his eyes closed. There was nothing death-like or painful about him, except--ah yes--Linde could not repress a little shiver at the sight--a small dart or arrow transfixed the dainty body, pinning one wing to his side, where a drop of blood told its cruel tale.

"Draw it out," came the next command.

"I feel as if it would hurt him," murmured Linde tremulously. But there came a sort of trill of entreaty from the fifty watchers, and she felt that she must obey. So mastering her own misgiving, she took firm hold of the head of the dart, and deftly drew it out, thinking as she did so, "It will hurt him less if I do it quickly."

It took some little strength, but it did not break, and to her surprise the hole it should have left, disfiguring the pretty creature, closed at once. Then the bird gave a sudden shiver, a thrill of returning life passed through him--Linde herself was conscious of it in her fingers--his eyes unclosed; he looked up at her, then, with a wonderful note of exceeding joy, he spread his wings and flew round the bower, returning again to perch on the child's still outstretched hand, as if in gratitude.

And then--and then--oh if you could have heard the carol of delight that burst out from the comrades of the spell-freed redbreast! It was too beautiful to describe; nor could it be described in human language. For after all, exquisite as may be the bird songs--nightingales' or thrushes', blackbirds' or larks', which delight us, it cannot, I fear, fall to our lot to hear them, as did favoured Linde, in fairyland!

She stood enraptured till the melody subsided and there was silence again, broken by the voice of the small master of the ceremonies.

"It is done," he said, "and perfectly done. The spell is broken, the sad enchantment ended. The forest is our own again. Our beloved ancestor restored to us and to the life of which he was so cruelly deprived before he had had his rightful share."

"Oh the joy of it, the joy of it!" trilled the resuscitated bird, as he fluttered from Linde's hand to her shoulder, and a chorus of sympathy burst out again.

But Linde's guide had not yet finished his speech. He held up one claw and there was silence.

"Friends," he began again. "What is to be this maiden's reward for what she has done? Our gracious lady protector, the Queen of the Fairies, has left it to us to decide. We must be generous as well as grateful, for Linde deserves it of us--and remember, but for her sweet and loving nature, not all her courage in braving alone the cold and darkness could have succeeded. Brothers, shall we let her choose her reward?"

A universal chirp of "Yes, yes" was the reply.

So the speaker turned again to the little girl.

"Linde," he said, "good Linde, you who have never been guilty of a cruel unkind deed, Linde, you who have been brave and obedient, what do you choose?"

"Oh robin, dear robin," she exclaimed, "I think you must know already. The leaves, the delicious leaves from the redbreast's roses--if we may always have these, Aria and I will be safe and happy. I will come to fetch them in the middle of the night or whenever you like--and," she added, with a little smile, "_might_ I have the fairy spade too?"

The robin held up his claw again.

"Yes, yes," came the answer in bird language, followed by some chirps which Linde's ears were not yet "fairy-wise" enough to translate.

"Your requests are granted," said the president. "You may keep the spade," for it was still lying beside her. "Small as it is, it is endowed with magic power. If you keep it bright and clean it will do good work in your garden. And my friends and relations, headed by our revered ancestor," he waved his claw, and the kingly robin fluttered to Linde's head, where he gave an approving chirp, replied to by the audience, "desire me to say that it will not be necessary for you to fetch the leaves. You will only require to place the old jar on the window-sill overnight whenever it needs replenishing, laying the three feathers inside it; and in the morning it will be filled as you wish."

"Thank you, thank you," cried Linde again, "and now, dear robins, I must hurry home. I shall never forget this lovely place. May I never come again?"

Her guide answered rather sadly.

"I fear not. Few, very few, mortals have come even as far as an entrance to fairyland. Nor could you ever find this spot again, try as you might. But we--we robins, will often see you in the forest, no longer forbidden ground."

"Yes, that is true," Linde replied cheerfully. "Then good-night--not good-bye, to you all, and please tell me how I am to get up again to the clearing, so as to run home to relieve Aria's anxiety and tell her the good news."

"That _we_ will manage," said her first friend. "Birds!"

There was an answering flutter.

"Seat yourself comfortably, my child, and close your eyes."

Linde obeyed, but not before seeing and feeling that all the assembled robins were flying down and surrounding her, so that with the velvety softness of the grassy sod and the fluffy feeling of the feathered creatures encircling her, she seemed in a cosy nest, and already somewhat sleepy. Then a slight touch on the top of her head made her start a little.

"It is only we two," chirped her guide, "I and the noble bird who owes his life to you. We are here to direct the air voyage. Rest, my child, rest and be at peace."

Linde did not know that she fell asleep, though afterwards she knew it must have been so. She felt herself rising, rising--then a breath of colder air met her face, and--that was all she knew, till--she awoke, and found herself in the porch of the cottage, and--to prove the night's adventures had been no dream, in one hand the little spade, in the other the three red feathers, still firmly clasped.

She was a very practical maiden, in spite of her fairy perceptions, so the first thing she did was to lay the small treasures safely in the old jar, saying to herself, and "to-morrow night--no, I should say to-night, we will place it outside on the window-sill and in the morning it will be filled with the lovely leaves. What news, what joy to tell Aria!"

She ran upstairs--softly--but her sister was awake.

"Darling," she said, "are you really safely back? Yet I have not been anxious. Somehow I felt you were all right and I have had a peaceful sleep."

Then Linde told her the whole wonderful story and showed her the little spade. And at night you may be sure they did not forget to put the jar in the appointed place, to find it in the morning replenished with rose-leaves whose perfume seemed even more delicious than ever before. So Saturday found them with plenty of their treasured wares for sale, and quickly were they bought.

Nor was this only temporary good fortune.

The fame of their dried roses spread far and wide, and orders came from great distances, so that the two sisters were able not only to go on living together in greater comfort than they had ever known, but even to lay aside savings for a possible "rainy day."

Though as far as I could learn--this story, you know, is of a fairly long ago "once upon a time"--that day never came to the happy girls. The robins never failed them. The cottage garden and the neighbouring forest grew to be famed for the peculiarly beautiful redbreasts which there abounded. The uncanny reputation of the woods was quite forgotten, and on the contrary it was said to bring good luck to those who often strolled about in them.

I think both Aria and Linde married in due time and had happy homes of their own. One or other certainly did so, for the country-folk of that remote part of the world, from whom I learnt the story, showed me a specially lovely rose--"the robins' rose," it was called, and told me that it had been cultivated by the descendants of the sisters, till, for some reasons which I could not discover, the family had moved elsewhere.

"And they do say," added one aged dame, "that they grew to be rich and important, much looked up to and respected, which one can believe, if they took after their great-grandmothers and were favoured by the 'good people,' as those pretty maidens were."

I suppose the old jar and the magic spade were carried away as heirlooms, for though I looked about in some very curious antique shops in the neighbouring town, hoping to find one or both, I never succeeded in doing so, nor could I trace the family at all, which is scarcely to be wondered at, as no one still living remembered the sisters save by the quaint names of "Aria" and "Linde"--names which I love, and which I hope this story may lead others to love also.

A Magic Table

Once upon a time--how long ago really does not matter--there lived in a certain country--and where that country is, does not matter either--three young men of about the same age. They were not brothers, but they had always been neighbours, and they must have been some sort of cousins, for they had an old relation whom they all called uncle and who called them all nephews.

"Nephew Hodge," "nephew Giles," and "nephew Michael." Those were their names, though I fancy the last--he was the youngest--was more often "Mike" than "Michael."

They were all three steady, well-behaved fellows, and very friendly with each other, which was natural as in several ways their circumstances were curiously alike. They were all orphans, and though Hodge and Giles had sisters, these were married and settled at a distance, and as for Mike he had nobody at all belonging to him, and as he was a very affectionate creature, but for his two friends he would have felt lonely indeed. They were all poor--very poor--the one thing each had inherited from his parents was a home, such as it was. Just a small cottage with a bit of garden ground, which in their leisure hours each cultivated to the best of his ability, thus growing some hardy fruit and vegetables which helped to support them, and a few pretty flowers, to brighten things up a bit.

They had a little friendly rivalry over these tiny gardens. Hodge's produced the best vegetables, Giles's the finest fruit, but young Michael's far and away the loveliest flowers. And instead of quarrelling as to which of them deserved the most praise as a gardener, like sensible fellows, each gave a present to the other two of his special triumphs.

There was still another curious bond between the three--which in most cases would have been the very reverse of a bond, and pretty certainly would have dissolved the friendship. They were all in love with the same girl. A charming girl she was, but of her, more shall be told hereafter. Perhaps the hopelessness of their admiration for her helped to keep the peace, for they were far too poor to aspire to her, as she was a damsel with a dowry of gold and silver, as well as of sweet looks and sweet character. So the three used to sit together and sing her praises with no bitterness or jealousy.

The cottages stood at some distance apart, half or a quarter of a mile or so between them. So that in busy seasons, such as hay-making or harvesting, our friends sometimes saw very little of each other for days at a time, as they were not labourers on the same farm. But the long dull winter evenings they made a point of spending together, taking their cottages in turns as a meeting-place, for as to comfort, the three dwellings were much of a muchness, though Mike's somehow always looked the nicest, as in summer he adorned it with his flowers, and even in winter managed to tie up bunches of pretty leaves and bright-coloured berries to give his kitchen a cheerful air.

And besides these friendly evenings, the three young men always met on Sundays, and that all the year round. For on that day they had a standing invitation to dine with the old uncle, who was, as I forgot to say, also godfather to all three.

This personage was in some ways very peculiar and indeed rather mysterious. Strange stories were whispered concerning him through the country-side. Some said that he was a wizard; nearly all agreed that, at best, he had dealings with "the good people." But though to a certain extent he was feared, he was not disliked, as on more than one occasion he was known to have shown great kindness to families in distress, though how he came to hear so quickly of other folks' troubles remained a mystery, as he lived at a considerable distance from any other dwelling, and was too infirm ever to leave his own cottage.

He was of course reputed to be very rich, but that, as you will learn, was a mistake. And a miser he could not well be called, considering the kind actions I have alluded to, and the steady hospitality he showed to his godsons, Hodge, Giles, and Michael. The truth was--and there need be no secret about it--that "Uncle Peter" had a small pension for life, sufficient to keep him in simple comfort. For long ago he had been a soldier and a brave one, though he seldom talked of those old days. Sad things had happened to him, and for many years he had been a lonely man before, just about the time these grandnephews of his were born, he wandered back to the part of the country which had been his home as a boy, there, like Rip Van Winkle, to find none of his generation left, though he made friends in his own way with the remaining members of his family and their children.

Peter had travelled far and had seen queer places and queer people and had learnt some queer things. It was no great wonder that he got the name of being something of a wizard, for there was no doubt that he knew of things happening or going to happen in ways that could not be explained. But notwithstanding this, he was not regarded with fear, only with a kind of respectful awe. Even his godsons felt this, though at the same time they were really attached to him and grateful for his hospitality, in itself of a very strange character. For though he was never known to buy food of any sort, and was supposed to live entirely upon the fruit and vegetables he himself grew, and though he had no one to cook for him and no fireplace or stove where anything but the very simplest things could be boiled or roasted or even heated, the weekly dinner provided for his three guests, every Sunday, was of the very best. Not only was the food of excellent quality, it was also abundant. Indeed, at times when work was short, as in the winter often is the case, both for artisans in towns and for labourers in the country, I doubt if the three cousins would have kept as well and hearty as they did but for this substantial and nourishing meal regularly once a week.

They had often wondered how Uncle Peter managed it, and once or twice they had hazarded a tactful enquiry of their host on the subject. But it had served no purpose. On the contrary, both Hodge and Giles, who had been the questioners, had been quickly silenced by the old man's reply.

"Did you never hear the proverb about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?" he said the first time. "True, there is nothing about my dishes which you are not free to test if you choose, both as to quality and cooking. All the same, I think the saying conveys a broad hint as to the courtesy suited to those who accept a gift."

And to Giles he was even more severe.

"When you invite me to a Sunday feast, my good nephew," he said, "I promise to eat thereof with gratitude, and with no curiosity as to whence or how you procured it," at which reprimand Giles looked very foolish, and could only humbly ask Peter's pardon, adding, "That day, I misdoubt me, my respected uncle, will never dawn."

For, as I have already said, the three young men were very poor.

Still, when they were sitting of an evening by themselves, with no fear of offending the old man by their talk, it was only natural that they should discuss the mystery. There was a peculiar rule about their Sunday visit. They were obliged to be exceedingly punctual, by which I mean, neither too early nor too late. Half an hour after noon was the appointed time, so they arranged to meet at church, and when the service was over to wait in the porch till the ancient clock struck twelve, as they found that by then starting at once for Peter's cottage and walking rather quickly they reached it just a minute or two before the dinner hour.

Often, when waiting thus at the church door, they would receive a smile and a nod from the girl they all adored--pretty Ysenda--and now and then she would even stop a moment and say to whichever of the three happened to be nearest at hand, "My love to Uncle Peter, and a pleasant visit to him." Not that he was her uncle or any relation, but she had got into the habit of going to see him sometimes out of pity for his loneliness, and the old man had taken a great fancy to her. In fact she was the only visitor he ever received, with of course the exception of the nephews on Sunday.

Once--some time ago it was, when the custom had first begun--Michael had by accident arrived at Peter's cottage some minutes before the others. He was on the point of knocking at the door when something stopped him. He afterwards declared that he did not know what. But standing there, he heard sounds within--curious sounds--his uncle's voice, slow and solemn as if reciting something, then a very delicate tinkle as of a tiny bell, and lastly a whirring sound as of wheels moving quickly, and then complete silence. And while he was debating as to whether he should knock or not, to his relief he heard his cousins' footsteps approaching. He turned back a little way to meet them, but before he had time to tell them what he had heard, the door opened and their host stood there bidding them welcome.

Ever after that they all three came together as I have told you, and waited at a little distance till their uncle made his appearance. For Michael confided to his cousins that there had been something uncanny about the mysterious sounds. Furthermore he felt instinctively that he had not been meant to overhear them, and that if Peter knew of it he might have been angry, and possibly would never have invited them again.

Hence, Michael, of the three, was the most careful as to what he said to the old man, and never did he venture to show any curiosity on the subject of the whence or how of the mysterious feast.

But now and then he had a queer feeling that pretty Ysenda _knew_--what?--he could not define it, more clearly than by suspecting that she was in old Peter's confidence in a way that he and his friends were not.

And one evening--it was a Saturday--when the three were sitting together in his cottage, he expressed something of the kind to Hodge and Giles. They were very much surprised.

"She is a good, true-hearted maiden," he added. "I don't for a moment mean that she has any selfish motives for her attentions to our godfather."

"That's to say you don't suspect her of trying to supplant us in his favour, as to inheriting whatever he has to leave?" said Hodge. There was some suspicion in his tone, much as he admired Ysenda.

"One never knows," added Giles. "_She_ may have no thought of the kind--why should she? She is rich already--all the same, Uncle Peter may make her his heir, without her being to blame."

"I think it most unlikely," replied Michael. "No such idea was in my mind. Besides," he went on, growing rather indignant, "Ysenda is just the girl to put a stop to anything unfair. She is as kind and generous as a woman can be. We all know of her goodness in any case of poverty or distress that she hears of. No, all I meant was that she may know something of Uncle Peter's dealings with the 'good people'; she is just the sort of sweet maiden that the fairies love."

"Maybe," said Giles, who was not very ready to believe in anything he could not see with his own eyes, "maybe she herself is the only fairy in the matter. Maybe _she_ provides the feast."

"Impossible," said Hodge and Mike, and so it was.

"Anyway," persisted Giles, "I daresay it's she who tells him of the misfortunes and accidents he gets to know of so quickly."

"On the contrary," replied Michael, "she has told me herself that it has often been Uncle Peter who has been _her_ informant in such matters, and that he has employed her to carry assistance to the sufferers. There was that great fire last winter at Olden Wood. She happened to see him the very same morning while it was still blazing, five miles off, and no one hereabouts knew of it! And the letter from over the sea telling of Widow Martha's son's death, reducing her to poverty, for he'd been a good son, always sending her money. _Why_," Mike went on very solemnly, "_he knew what was in that letter_ before it had reached Martha's hands!"

There was no reply to this. Even Giles was much impressed, and all three started when just at that moment there came a tap at the door, for it was getting late, and being far on in the autumn the evening grew dark very early.

The cousins looked at each other half timorously, for even the bravest of men--and they were by no means cowards--may be momentarily frightened by anything uncanny.

The tap was repeated.

Michael got up and opened the door cautiously. What he expected to see he could not have said, but a witch astride on a gander, or a goblin with scarlet ears as big as a donkey's and a long tail, would scarcely have surprised him!

Instead--how different!--there stood two small figures--children evidently, and as a very plaintive little voice reached him, he threw open the door more widely, so that the light from within fell on the new-comers, and he perceived that they were a boy and girl, apparently about twelve or fourteen years old, poorly though decently clad, each carrying a bundle, and with pale, travel-tired faces.

"Please," said the voice--it was the boy's, the elder of the two--"oh please can you tell me if Dame Martha Swann lives here or near here?"

Michael started again. It was of this very dame he had just been speaking. Were these two of the "good people" in disguise, come to visit him for some mysterious reason? He took care to answer very politely.

"Not here, but not so very far off," he replied, and the gentleness of his tone encouraged the child to ask further. "Then can you show us the road there? We are dreadfully tired--at least my little sister is, and we have lost our way somehow."

As the boy went on speaking, Michael's misgivings left him. The two were plainly ordinary human beings, though something in the child's voice or accent showed that they did not belong to this part of the world.

"Come in and rest yourselves for a while," said Mike. "Warm yourselves too. It is a chilly evening."

"Oh thank you," was the reply, as the two eagerly accepted his invitation. He led them towards the fire and drew forward seats, while Hodge and Giles, their pipes in their hands, stared in surprise.

"Whom have we here?" exclaimed Hodge; his tone sounded suspicious, and Giles too hung back a little.

"How should I know?" said Michael sharply. "You see as much as I. Whoever they are and wherever from, it's surely the least one can do to let them rest for a few minutes. No doubt they can explain about themselves. You were asking for old Dame Martha, my boy?" he went on.

"Yes, yes," was the ready reply, "we are her grandchildren. My name is Paul--Paul Swann, like father," his voice shook, "and----"

"I'm Mattie," said the girl, speaking for the first time. "That's for 'Martha,' like granny. Oh how I wish this was her house! I'm so tired."

"Poor little maid," said Michael kindly. "Well it's not so far to your granny's, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll carry you there myself. But first you must have a bite of bread and a drink of milk. I'll have it ready in a minute," and he turned to the cupboard, which was almost as bare as Mother Hubbard's, for the bread and milk were all there was for his own breakfast!

The children were famishing. The food disappeared in a twinkling. Then the boy explained that they had come all across the sea to take refuge with their grandmother in their desolation since their father's death, for their mother had died five years ago. Some kindly disposed people had seen them on board the ship, and given them a little money to carry them the rest of the way on landing. But the very first night ashore some wicked person had stolen it, so there was nothing for it but to come on, on foot. It was really no very great distance, not more than eight to ten miles from the seaport, but they were strangers in a strange land, almost afraid to ask their way, and they had probably wandered astray. This was their pitiful story.

But already Michael's kindness had revived them, and they stood up, eager to get to the only home they had now a chance of. The cousins looked at each other. What was in store for the poor things? Their grandmother, a loving soul, would welcome them no doubt, and share with them all she had. But that "all" was really nothing. She was feeble and crippled with rheumatism. But for old Peter and his friend Ysenda, she would before this have risked dying of starvation.

However--"Cheer up," said Michael, as he hoisted little Mattie on to his shoulder, Paul loading himself with the bundles. "Cheer up. We'll be at the good dame's in no time. Giles," he went on, for Hodge was looking sulky and disapproving, "Giles, you might do worse than help the boy--or at least bring a bundle of my faggots and come with us. Martha's fire will be none too big."

Giles started forward, half shamed into doing his part--and Hodge, who was, after all, more stupid than bad-hearted, drew out of his pocket two small copper coins, which he handed to Paul.

"Tell your granny," he said, "that's to help to get you some milk for breakfast from the farm near by her cottage."

Paul smiled gratefully and thanked him.

Then they set off--Hodge walking with them a part of the way, till he reached the turning to his own home.

The poor dame was still up--sitting by the tiny fire in her kitchen, grudging to lose any of its welcome warmth, when Michael--leaving the others at the door--stepped in warily with a cheerful "good evening," so as not to terrify the lonely old woman.

Mingled indeed were her feelings, as you can imagine. Loving delight as she clasped the little travellers in her trembling arms, though even in that first moment the dire misgiving seized her as to how they were to be fed and clothed! So pathetic are often the greatest joys of the very poor.

But the children for the moment had no such fears.

"Oh granny, granny," cried the little girl, "it is so sweet, so lovely to have found you," and Paul turned away to hide the tears which he thought himself too big a boy to give way to.

They were near Michael's own eyes, and even Giles had a lump in his throat as he set to work to build up the fire with the bundle of his cousin's faggots.

The dame looked about her anxiously.

"My darlings, you must be hungry," she was beginning, but the little new-comers interrupted her.

"No, no," they said, with the quick thoughtfulness of the children of their class, "this kind man," pointing to Michael, "gave us supper at his house. We only want to go to bed, and it will be so beautiful to wake in the morning and to find we are with our own granny."

"And I have money to get some more bread and milk for breakfast," added Paul, jingling the two coppers in his pocket, "so that will be all right."

With the help of the two young men, a bed was soon made up for the boy on the old kitchen settle, as there was room for little Mattie beside the dame. Everything in the cottage was scrupulously clean, for to have had it otherwise would have broken Dame Martha's heart, and by the handy way that the children moved about, tired though they were, she was pleased to see that they had been well and carefully brought up. So for the moment she tried to dismiss her anxiety.

But when the cousins said good-night and set off on their way home Michael's heart felt heavy for the little family.

"Good Lord!" he murmured, "if only I were rich!"

"What then?" asked Giles. "You'd be for taking the lot of them on your shoulders, I suppose. Well, as things are, you can't do so. Of course they must all go to the workhouse, though to-night it would have been cruel to hint at such a thing."

Michael said nothing, but he had some hope that this might be avoided.

That very day--I have said it was a Saturday--a long conversation had taken place at old Peter's between himself and his favourite Ysenda.

She had looked in as she often did, and was startled and distressed to find him far from well.

"Yes," he said, in answer to her kindly enquiries, "yes, my dear young friend, I am failing fast. You must not grieve about it--the thought of dying is very familiar to me and far from unwelcome. But there is something I wish to consult you about. You know my secret. You know the only legacy I can leave behind me. It is as to this that I want to know your opinion, for you have a good sound judgment as well as a kind heart. To me myself the greatest pleasure would be to bequeath my magic gift to _you_, my dear Ysenda."

But the girl, as he had in his heart expected, shook her head.

"No, dear Peter," she replied. "There are those nearer to you than I, and more in need of help. Besides--I know the secret; the fulfilling its conditions would therefore be no test of my deserving its benefits. Nor do I stand in want of them. No--dear friend--if, as you kindly say, you consider my advice worth attending to, I would propose this. Bequeath the enchanted table to whichever of your three nephews discovers the inner spell which governs it. In this there will be nothing unfair. You can teach them the magic words, and then inform them that the further secret must be sought and found by themselves--or by himself. Hodge is the eldest--let him have the first trial, then Giles, and lastly Michael."

"And if--supposing Hodge succeeds?" said Peter with a rather curious enquiry in his tone.

Ysenda's face flushed a little.

"Well then, it would be all right. He would continue to use his power as it should be used."

"And Giles?"

"In the same way, of course," she replied.

"But--if both failed, and Mike came to have his try at it?"

Ysenda raised her pretty head with a gesture of pride.

"_Then_," she replied, "it would most certainly be all right. As to _Michael's_ good heart I have no misgiving whatever. Quite independently of the spell, no sooner would he have it in his power to show kindness to any one in need of it than he would be eager to do so."

"I agree with you," said her old friend; and to himself he added, "I suspected as much. Ah well, they are worthy of each other, and I trust that all will prosper with them."

Then after a moment's silence he went on again:

"I will do as you advise, my child. To-morrow I will announce my intention, and take the three into my confidence as far as is necessary. Then when my own summons comes I shall feel that I have acted for the best--fairly by all, though my own wishes are with that good young fellow, Michael."

Ysenda rose to go.

"You will come again soon?" said the old man. "The sands are running out quickly, I feel, and I am not likely to be mistaken."

"Dear Peter," whispered the young girl, and the tears rose to her eyes.

"Bless you, my child," laying his hand on her shoulder. Then just as she was turning away, a curious, listening expression crept over his face. "Yes, yes," he murmured, as if in reply to some inaudible voice, "yes."

Ysenda felt a little frightened, and of this Peter seemed at once aware. He patted her again.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, with a smile. "I have no dealings with the black arts. But certain things are communicated to me in ways that I must not reveal. And just now--I am glad you were still here. Trouble, or rather perplexity--for the trouble is mingled with joy--is at hand for our good old friend Dame Martha. Will you go to see her to-morrow, Ysenda, and learn about it?"

"I was already intending to enquire how she is," said the girl. "I will certainly not fail to see her, and I will do all I can to help her, you may be sure."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Peter. "Good-night, my child."

Many things passed through Ysenda's mind as she walked slowly home. She had no mother, and her father, though devoted to her, his only child, was a hard man. He thought her fanciful and romantic, as she had on several occasions refused to marry to please him. For his great idea was that her husband should be a wealthy man.

"He must at least show on his side as handsome a sum as will be the dowry I give you," he had often repeated. But so far, none of the suitors that in this respect were approved of by the father had found favour in his daughter's eyes, so that he began to think the girl had determined against marrying at all, little suspecting the love that had already crept into her sweet heart.

"Ah, well," he thought to himself, "better live single than make a poor choice of some pauper who would squander her fortune, though for that matter, unless I look to it, she will be for giving it all away in charity once the breath's out of my body. Ysenda is too 'giving' by half."

And with this idea, rich though he was, the father kept the girl but slenderly supplied with money. She had to account to him for every farthing, and only by denying herself many little things she had naturally a right to expect, was she able to help her poorer neighbours. And without old Peter's contributions, though in cash he had not much to give, still less would it have been possible for her to assist those in need.

"How I shall miss him!" she said to herself. "For some reasons I could wish he had bequeathed the magic table to me--to what advantage I could have used it! But it would not have been fair or right. Oh if only Michael wins it! Somehow----" and vague hopes began to flutter in her heart, for that the young fellow--no less than the others, in their own way--adored her, she could not doubt. "It might make things different," she thought. But then she resolutely put the idea away. "No, no, I must not dwell on it. It is almost as if I were looking forward to dear old Peter's death. And oh, by the bye, I must not forget to go to see old Martha Swann to-morrow. I wonder what new trouble has befallen her--trouble mingled with joy, he said, and of course _I_ know, as no one else knows, that Peter is in touch with the good people; the really good fairies, they must be, for he would have no dealings with mischievous, spiteful imps."

Now I must tell you what happened the next day--the eventful Sunday on which the old man felt that the time had come for his strange secret to be revealed to his three godsons.

They were there in good time as usual, waiting outside for the opening of the door and their host's appearing.

Hodge, as was his way, was very hungry and in a hurry to set to work at the excellent dinner which no doubt awaited them. Giles too agreed with him that under the circumstances time passed far too slowly. Michael, who of the three had every reason for more than ordinary hunger, as he had not tasted food since his early supper the day before, his breakfast, as you will remember, having been otherwise disposed of--poor Michael said nothing. His thoughts were running on the two little waifs that he had escorted to their grandmother, and not only on them and Dame Martha, but on kind Ysenda. For, coming out of church, she had whispered to him that she feared their old friend was in trouble. "I am going to her at once," she said, and ran off before the young man had time to reply.

"How did she know?" Michael wondered. "Perhaps through Uncle Peter's queer ways. However, she'll look after the poor things for a day or two, though it isn't very much that even Ysenda, bless her, can do, rich though her father is," for the farmer's peculiarities were no secret.

So Michael had plenty to think of, as well as of being hungry, while standing with his cousins outside the old man's cottage.

And after all, they were kept waiting a shorter time than usual. It still wanted some minutes to the half-hour after noon when the door opened and their uncle beckoned to them to enter.

Even as they did so, they felt that things were not quite the same as on former occasions. To begin with, the dinner was not ready; far from it, the table was not even to be seen!

Hodge's face fell, so did Giles's, as the same misgiving seized them.

"Supposing he's not going to give us any dinner at all," they thought. "Maybe he's been too feeble to see to it."

For a glance showed them that their host had sadly changed, even in a week. His face was as white as his hair, and as he sank into his old armchair he almost looked as if he was going to faint. Michael sprang forward.

"Dear uncle," he cried, and you may be sure that the fear of losing his dinner had no place in his thoughts, "dear uncle, you are ill--suffering. Will you let me run for the doctor?"

But even as the young man spoke, a little colour returned to Peter's cheeks and he smiled.

"No, no, my boy," he said, and his voice was very gentle, "no need for doctors. I can manage for myself. It was just a turn, but I shall be better again now for a bit, though not for long. I have been anxious to see you all to-day, for I misdoubt me if it is not the last time----" Michael gave a little exclamation of distress, and the other two looked very grave. "I am very old, you know, my dear nephews, and tired. I shall be glad to rest. But first I have something to tell you. I have no money to leave behind me, and but few little possessions, but I have a secret, and the time has now come for me to reveal it to you three, my only living relations."

He stopped for a moment and drank a little water, which seemed to revive him.