Chapter II: Part 2

As she was crying and sobbing, a strange noise above her made her look up, and there in a tiny hole in the face of the cliff a few feet above her head she saw the grinning face of a little Dark Man!

'You are caught in a trap,' he said, with a cough, 'and you will surely be drowned if we do not come to your help.'

'Will you help me, dear little Mister Spriggan?' cried Gerna, hope dawning in her eyes.

'Yes, if you will bring back to our goog, when the sea goes out, that precious purse which we know you have found.'

'I cannot do that, 'cause I promised I wouldn't, whatever happened,' said the child, greatly distressed.

'Oh, then in that case we will leave you to the mercy of the sea! Of course, it will drown you, and a good thing too, for it will prevent your doing what the voice asked you to do. We shall have the bag and it in our hands again to-morrow, whilst you will make a dainty dish for the fishes' supper!' and the stone clicked and the ugly little face disappeared.

'Hello! What are you doing down there, and the waves breaking all around you?' cried a voice far up the cliff, and, turning her tearful gaze upwards, Gerna saw kind Farmer Vivian--who looked almost as small as one of the Wee Folk from that great height--looking down upon her. 'A very good thing I gave you those dinky Shoes this morning. Put them on quickly. There is not a moment to lose. In the cliff to your right you will find some steps cut out of the rock. They are very small indeed, but quite large enough for those little green Shoes to climb up on.'

Gerna hastened to obey, and she saw on the face of the cliff a tiny winding stairway. She put her feet on the first stair, and found herself going up and up without fear, and she was soon at the top of the cliff, standing by Farmer Vivian's side.

'There you are, as right as the Small People's change!' said he, with a smile in his eyes, which were as blue as the sea itself, and oh! so gentle and kind. 'Don't take off your Shoes until you have passed all the Piskey Rings, or Spriggan Traps, or whatever they are,' he said, as Gerna turned her face towards her cottage. 'Pentire is full of them to-day--all made since last night, and all the colour of your dear little Shoes.'

'You can't step anywhere without putting your feet on a Ring,' Gerna said to herself, as she hurried home over the great headland. On every Ring she stepped she felt she must stop to dance like a Piskey. And she was not sure, but she thought she saw little dark faces grinning horribly at her from every Ring she passed over.

Great-Grannie was much upset when she heard what dangers her little great-granddaughter had been exposed to, for Gelert had come home with the news a few minutes before that she was drowned, as he could not see her anywhere!

The fright the old woman received showed her how wrong it was to covet the Small People's money, and she gave Gerna a basinful of hot bread-and-milk, and told her she could go to bed if she liked.

The child was worn out with all she had gone through, and went upstairs quite early, as she wanted to rest before taking the little prisoner to the Tolmen that night.

She did not undress before she had taken the ring-marked purse out of the chest once more, and told her wee friend of all that had happened and what she had gone through.

'I don't believe I should ever have got up that great cliff but for those dinky Shoes,' she added when she had told all; 'nor over Pentire Glaze.'

'I am certain you wouldn't,' said the wee voice. 'The Spriggans were all about the cliffs and headland, but they were powerless to hinder your going with those Shoes on your feet. You won't be afraid to take me over the bog now, will you, dear little maid?'

'No, that I shan't,' said Gerna; 'an' I'm a-going to do it to-night. But I must have a bit of sleep first. I hope I shall wake in time, an' that Great-Grannie won't miss me till I get back.'

'She won't miss you,' assured the little voice. 'The excitement she has suffered lately has exhausted her, and she will sleep until you are back in your own little bed again. Take me into bed with you, and put me close under your chin, and when the time is up for us to start I will tickle until I wake you.'

The child was soon in a deep slumber, and it seemed to her she had only just fallen asleep when she felt something tickling her neck.

'Dress quickly!' cried the little voice close to her ear. 'But before you do, let me impress on you once more that I can never repay you for your kindness, and that all you do for me you must do out of the purest pity and love, and for nothing else. So if you have any hankering after the Little People's gold, your journey is sure to end in failure. For the Spriggans, in spite of the Shoes and the Lantern Farmer Vivian gave you, will prevent your reaching the Tolmen, and will make you give me back into their hands, and thrust upon you the golden pieces they have so often offered you, but which will only bring you trouble.'

'I don't want anything for taking you to the place where you are to be set free,' said Gerna simply. 'I am doing it 'cause I love you, an' 'cause I am terribly sorry for you and your little True Love, an' I don't want that wicked Hager to make you marry him.'

'Then let us make haste and go,' said the little voice, trembling with gladness. 'Put the Shoes on your feet before you leave the chamber, and the Lantern and me into the bosom of your frock.'

There was no moon, and Gerna had to dress in the dark. It was soon done, and, with the moss-green Shoes on her feet, the ring-printed bag and the wee Lantern close to her heart, she went down the stairs and out into the night.

There was not a sound to be heard save a weird cry somewhere away on Pentire, which the little voice coming up from the bosom of her frock said was Hager howling because his subjects were telling him that he must now give up all hope of ever taking to wife his poor little prisoner. 'You must not be afraid of whatever sounds you hear,' continued the little voice.

'Are we going the right way?' asked Gerna. For the Shoes were taking them up a rough, steep road behind their cottage.

'Yes, quite right; the Shoes know the way--trust them for that! Don't worry about anything; only hold me as close as you can to your warm little heart. We shall have to warm each other when we come to the bog country. It is bitterly cold there.'

On and on Gerna went with her precious burden, through long lanes, up and down steep hills, over sandy commons and furze-brakes, and so fast that she could not have spoken even if she wanted to!

At last she drew near the bog lands, lying flat between two high Tors.

'It's terribly cold here,' she said, when the Shoes stuck in the ground for a minute, 'and ever so dark, except where there are little lights shining out of the dark like cats' eyes!' and she began to shiver with cold and fear.

'Don't be afraid, dear child,' said the sweet little voice, in which there was no sadness now. 'The hobgoblins are out in the bog, and as they are near relations of the Spriggans, they are hand in glove with them. The Spriggans feared you would pass over this bog to-night, and have set their relations to watch. But they are not so clever as they thought themselves. They know you have the Shoes, but they don't dream you possess that wee Lantern too.'

'Is the Lantern any good?' asked Gerna in surprise. 'Farmer Vivian said it was only big enough to light home a benighted dumbledory.'

'It was a joke about the dumbledory,' laughed the little voice. 'It can do much more than that. It has the power of making you invisible, and its light will, if you hold it on the little finger, shine in on your heart and keep it warm.'

'What wonderful things there are nowadays!' exclaimed the child.

'Aren't there?' cried the little voice, with another happy laugh. 'The Lantern will not only give warmth if so held, and cloak you from the hobgoblins and wicked Spriggans, but will also give you courage, which you will need crossing this bog country.'

It was well Gerna was told all this before the Shoes began to take her over that dreadful bog. The mists rose thick and cold as she advanced, and crept over her with such chilling power that she felt as cold as a conkerbell, [8] she told herself. And the countless little lights, or eyes, or whatever they were, were horrid, and seemed to glaze [9] at her whichever way she looked. There were groans and sighs, too, which filled her with a nameless terror, and but for the cheerful little voice, which every now and again told her not to be afraid, and the white, clear shining of the tiny Lantern, she would have turned back.

By the time the bog was crossed, which she afterwards learned was by a narrow causeway, just wide enough for two small feet to walk on, she was chill to the very bone and terribly tired.

It was well on towards the sunrising by this time, and there was yet that wild moor to cross before she reached the Tolmen, and she was afraid she would never be able to reach it in time.

She was growing more and more weary every minute, and the Shoes, although they could guide and take her over the most difficult places, did not seem to be able to give her strength.

'Do you think we shall get to the Tolmen before the sun gets up?' asked the little voice anxiously.

'I don't know,' Gerna answered in a low, weary voice. 'The moon is up, I think--all there is left of it, I mean--and I can see another light shining somewhere away in the east.'

'It must be later than I thought,' said the wee voice, and the little creature within the bag began to tremble with apprehension. 'Do make haste, dear little maid! It would be quite too dreadful to be too late after all you have done to free me from Hager's power.'

'I am awfully tired,' was the child's answer. 'If I could only rest a few minutes I could go faster afterwards. Shall I? I am ready to drop.'

'You must not sit down until you have reached the Tolmen. I am certain the Spriggans are following in our wake. They are throwing their Thunder-axes [10] over every moving thing they can see, and over every motionless thing they can touch, and if they should happen to knock against you and throw one over you, they have power to keep you helpless to move until the sun has risen.'

'Why didn't they do that when I was in danger of being drowned?' asked Gerna.

'The Thunder-axes are no good except just before the rising of the sun, or the Spriggans would not be following us to use them now. You won't give up now, whatever it costs, will you, dear?'

'Not if I can help it,' said the child wearily.

She kept going on until she reached higher ground, where she saw standing out in the semi-darkness of the early morning a great Tolmen on the brow of the moor, and over it hanging like a hunter's horn the silver curve of the old moon.

A cry of gladness broke from Gerna's lips as she saw it, which must have made all the bad little fairies, if any were about, slink away in dismay, and the sight so cheered her that her weariness left her for a time, and she sped on like a hare until she dropped down by the big stone's side.

'We have reached the Tolmen, have we not?' asked the little voice, all a-tremble with joy.

'Yes,' panted the child; 'and the sun isn't up. I am awful glad--aren't you?'

'More glad than I dare say, dear little maid. But I am not out of prison yet. Is there any hint of the sunrise?'

'There is a pinky light over one of the Tors,' answered Gerna.

'Ah! then you must pass me through the Tolmen's hole at once. Three times, remember,' as Gerna put her hand in the bosom of her frock and drew out the tiny bag.

The brambles had grown up around the gray stone's hole, and almost blocked the way to it, and it was minutes before she could tear them aside and get into the opening; but she did so at last, and passed the prison-bag three times through the hole as she was bidden. As she did so, the sky in the east grew brighter and brighter, and she knew from that sign that the sun was about to rise.

'Now place the prison and me, its prisoner, on the top of the Tolmen,' cried the little voice--'longways to the east it must lie; and when you have done that, stand by the Holed Stone very quietly, then wait and see what will happen.'

Gerna did as she was told, and stood on a high bank of fragrant thyme at the head of the hoary old granite stone, with its great hole, her face towards the sunrising.

She herself was very quiet, as was also the little prisoner, but all the great wild moor was now full of music. The linnets were already twittering in the bushes, and many larks were high in the sky, singing to greet another dawn. As they sang, the east grew more and more beautiful, and behind the great Tors the sky was a wonderful rose on a background of delicate gold.

Gerna thought the sun would never show himself, and she was too tired to appreciate all the wonder of the sunrise, though she was glad enough to hear the birds singing, for it made her feel she was not so very far from home, after all.

At last the sun, red-gold and very large, wheeled up behind the shoulder of a Tor and flung out a great lance of flame across the moorland, which smote the small ring-marked purse lying on the Tolmen.

Gerna, whose gaze was now riveted on the purse, saw its ends open like a gasping fish, and then shrivel up, and in its black ashes sat the most beautiful little creature it was possible to conceive. She was so lovely and so dainty that the child could only stare at her open-mouthed with wonder and amazement.

'How can I ever thank you, dear little Gerna, for all you have done for me!' said the radiant creature, looking up into the child's amazed eyes. 'All the Wee Folks' treasures will not be deemed reward enough for the child who preferred to be compassionate than to be made rich with fairies' gold. I should not be sitting here free from that,' pointing to the shrivelled-up blackness which was once a Spriggan's prison, 'but for you, dear. Are you not glad you are the means of setting me free and bringing me unspeakable happiness?'

'Iss,' said Gerna, hardly knowing what she was saying, her eyes still drinking in the beauty of the little fairy. 'Aw!' she exclaimed, 'you are a dear little lovely, sure 'nough--better than all the Small People's golden pieces. You don't look a bit old, nuther.'

'You thought I should look as old as your Great-Grannie, didn't you?' laughed the happy little creature. 'The Small People show their age by looking younger and fairer--at least, the royal fairies do.'

She got on her feet as she spoke, and gazed over the great moor, and as she gazed, her face, which had the delicate pink of a cowry-shell, grew more beautiful, and a tender, happy light crept into her speedwell-blue eyes.

'There is a friend of yours crossing the moor,' she said in her sweet voice, which was more than ever like the note of a bird, only sweeter and clearer.

'Why, 'tis Farmer Vivian!' cried the child. 'However did he get here? I do hope he won't want to have you,' glancing at her lovely little friend anxiously. 'I don't know what I shall do to hide 'ee if he should. I couldn't put beautiful little you in my underskirt pocket or into the bosom of my frock.'

'Why not?' asked the dainty little creature, smiling. 'I lay there close to your heart all this night, and a warmer, truer little heart I shall never rest against. But you need not fear Farmer Vivian on my account. He, of all persons, would not hurt any of the Good Small People for a king's crown, much less me.'

'He is getting smaller!' exclaimed Gerna. 'Why, he is a teeny, tiny Farmer Vivian now! Ah, dear! how queer everything is! Everything is queer an' funny since I picked up that purse with the rings 'pon it an' dear little you inside.'

'Cannot you guess who he is?' asked the little fairy, her lovely wee face more tender than the June sky over them.

'No,' returned the wondering child. 'Who is he?'

'My own little True Love!' answered the fairy, her eyes a blue light. 'We are meeting each other after a century of black years. He was my True Love all the time in the form of big Farmer Vivian! For love of poor little me he kept in the neighbourhood of Piskey Goog all that time.'

It was all so surprising that Gerna told herself she would never be surprised any more whatever happened. And when the two Wee Lovers, separated by cruel Fate for one hundred years, met and greeted each other in lover fashion, all over the great moor broke the sound of pealing bells, so tiny and so silvery and with such music in their tones the like of which Gerna had never in all her life heard before. And where the bells were rung from she never knew, for there were no steeples or towers anywhere that she could see. As the bells' music rang on, and all the little moorland birds sang more entrancingly than before, she saw hundreds and hundreds of the Small People, all more or less beautiful, come out from behind clumps of Bog-myrtle, and banks of thyme, and beds of sweet-scented orchis, [11] all laughing and singing as they came towards the Tolmen, where the dear Little Lady and her True Love were standing hand in hand, smiling and bowing and looking as happy as ever they could look.

The little prisoner, who was now a prisoner no longer, seemed to be a very great personage indeed, the child thought, judging by the way the Wee Men took off their caps and bowed to her, and the little ladies made their curtseys; and in truth she was a real Princess, the eldest daughter of the King and Queen of the Good Little People, as Gerna was soon to learn.

There was great rejoicing when the Wee Folk heard how their Princess Royal had been set free, and how much Gerna had done towards it. They could not make enough of her, or do enough for her. They kissed her hands, as if she too were a Royal Princess, instead of being only a poor little Cornish peasant girl! They brought her fairy mead--metheglin they called it--in cups so small yet so exquisite ('like Cornish diamonds, only more lovely,' Gerna said), and gave her food to eat from dishes all iris-hued like the shells that she had picked up on the sands in her own bay, only the Small People's dishes were much thinner and more transparent than any shells she had ever seen.

She was never 'treated so handsome before,' she told herself--scores and scores of dear wee creatures to wait on her and to give her more when she wanted!

When she could not eat 'a morsel more,' nor drink another cup of the all-sweet mead, her own Little Lady and her True Love, who had been sitting close to her all this time on a bed of yellow trefoil, rose up and took her through a rock-door behind the Tolmen and down into a most beautiful place--much more beautiful than she could ever have pictured in her wildest dreams.

It was the country where the Good Little People lived, 'Farmer Vivian' told her. She saw so much that she could take in nothing until they came to the King's Palace, which was the most beautiful palace in fairyland. Here she was taken into room after room--each more beautiful than the last--until she came to a place called the 'Room of the Chair,' which was full of soft voices, fragrant smells, and sweet music. This room was open to the blue dome of the sky, and away at the end of it, on a Chair, sat two Wee People with eyes the colour of her dear Little Lady's. They were not different from the other Small People surrounding the Chair, save that they had 'things on their heads,' as Gerna expressed it (which, of course, were crowns), that shone like the blue of the sea when the sun shines on it, and that they looked even more gracious and more gentle and kind than did her own Little Dear.

When the King and Queen of the Good Little People had lovingly welcomed back their long-lost daughter, and complimented their child's betrothed--who was also a very great personage in the Small People's Kingdom--for his constancy and fidelity to their dear daughter, Gerna, in her print sunbonnet and sun-faded tinker-blue frock, was introduced to their gracious Majesties as the dear little Cornish maid who preferred to be kind rather than be made rich with the Small People's gold.

Pages could be filled with what the King and Queen said to the child, who never felt so uncomfortable in her life as when they thanked her and praised her for all she had done.

'I haven't done nothing much--nothing worth a thank'ee, I mean,' she kept saying.

'Thou hast done more than thou wilt ever know,' said his tiny Majesty solemnly, 'and we feel we can never repay thee. We could, of course, reward thee with more gold than the Spriggans offered, but we are glad to know thou would'st not value it if we gave it thee. But as we are anxious to show we are not ungrateful, we will give thee the greatest of all gifts--the eye to see all that is good and beautiful in human hearts, and the power to bring it out, which alone will make thee greatly beloved. We will also teach thee to love the lowly grass as we ourselves love it, and the humble herbs, and all the gentle flowers, which make all the common roadways, moors and downs, so fragrant and beautiful. We will reveal to thee all their charms, virtues, and healing properties, so that Gerna, the maid of Polzeath, may be a blessing to her parish. And, moreover, the Good Small People shall love thee as they have never loved a human being before--not only for the sake of our beloved child, the Princess Royal of all the Good Little People, but because thou art kind and good and could not be induced to do an unkind deed even for a purseful of the Spriggans gold.'

Gerna had but dim recollections of what followed afterwards: she only knew she was led in great state by 'Dinky Farmer Vivian' on the one side, and her Wee Lady on the other, down a long lane of bowing and curtseying Little Grandees, until she came out into gardens ablaze with flowers. She was then taken through parks, where teeny, tiny deer and cows were grazing, on and on until they came to a tiny door in a cliff, when she felt the soft pressure of kisses on her face and heard the sweet wee voice she knew so well whispering in her ear, 'Good-bye, dear little maid, until we meet again--which shall be soon!' and the next moment she found herself back in Great-Grannie's poor little chamber in her own small bed, and Great-Grannie herself telling her to get up and go down to the bay 'to once' to pick limpets for the ducklings, which were nearly quacking the house down for want of their breakfast.

Gerna wondered as she dressed if all that had taken place that night was a dream, and she searched for the ring-marked Piskey-purse to be quite sure it wasn't. As it was nowhere to be found, nor the wee Shoes, nor the dinky Lantern, she came to the conclusion that it must be true.

In passing Piskey Goog on her way back from her limpet-picking, she saw a wee Brown Man with a laugh all over his merry little face, which made it delightful to look at. He took off his cap as polite as could be, and spoke to the child with the greatest respect.

'I am a real Piskey,' he said, introducing himself, 'and Farmer Vivian told me it would interest you to know that the Spriggans who lived in this goog were taken prisoners soon after their captive was set free, and that they were at once taken before the Gorsedd (the Little People's judgment-seat), and were tried and condemned to break iron with wooden hammers in a dark cave until they repent, which I am afraid they never will, for they are past all good feeling, poor things, and will gradually grow smaller and smaller until they turn into emmets, as all evil-minded fairies in the Small People's country do.'

'Aw dear! What a terrible punishment!' exclaimed Gerna.

'I must go back into our cavern,' said the Piskey. 'It was always ours until the Spriggans turned us out about a year ago. They can never turn us out any more now, our King says, thanks to a little Cornish maid, who would rather be good than be rich. We are ordered to play no pranks on the people of this parish for her sake, even if they don't turn their coats or stockings inside out, nor to ride any horses in the happy night-time, except the horses of those who have an inordinate love of money.'

And the Little Man, who was a real Piskey, went off laughing and disappeared into Piskey Goog.

Years passed on. Great-Grannie died, and Gerna grew into womanhood. She was the best-loved person in St. Minver parish, as the King of the Good Little People said she would be. Everybody loved her dearly; they loved her because she saw the good that was in their hearts, and was not slow to tell them of it, and because of her good opinion of them, which although they did not always deserve, they tried their hardest to live up to. They came to her with their heart-wounds as well as the wounds of their bodies, and she, who had the gift of healing with the herbs and flowers of the earth, somehow knew how to salve the sores of the heart too.

Gerna never grew rich, and never wanted to, and as she would not take a penny piece or anything greater, she had always plenty of patients. People came to her from far as well as near, and brought, not only themselves, but their poor suffering animals. If the truth be told, she had a deeper compassion for the dumb beasts, who could not tell out their sorrows, than she had for their masters, which is saying a great deal, and she always applied her most soothing and healing ointments to their bodies.

It was said that Gerna often saw her Little Lady and her True Love, and that the dear Wee Folk flocked to see her when the moon was up; that they were most kind to her, and even brought her herbs and flowers, wet with fairy dew, for her simples, and helped her to make eye-salves and other healing things, which the poor people declared 'made them such a power for good.'

It was also told that the merry little Piskey Men danced on the top of Pentire Glaze cliffs for her special amusement, and that when they knew she was watching them, their laughter rang out clear as bells across the Polzeath beach of grey, gold sand.

THE MAGIC PAIL

On a lonely moor lying between Carn Kenidzhek [12] and Bosvavas Carn lived one Tom Trebisken and Joan his wife. They had been married up in the teens of years, and had no child, which was a disappointment to them both, especially to Joan, who suffered from rheumatism, which had crippled her feet.

Tom had long given up all hope of having a child, but Joan still believed that one would come to them some day, and it cheered her dreary hours, as she sat helpless in her armchair, to think of the advent of the little one, who would gladden their life. Every six days in seven she spent absolutely alone, for Tom worked as surface-man all the year round at Ding Dong, a great tin-mine, or bal, at the other end of their moor, and had to leave for his work early in the morning, and did not return until late in the evening; so it was not surprising that she wanted a child, and that she sometimes cried in her heart: 'Aw that I had a little maid of my own to do things for me an' keep me company when my Tom is away all day at the bal!'

The part of the moor where the Trebiskens lived was three miles or more from Ding Dong, and two miles from their nearest neighbour. It was quite out of the beaten track, and a passer by their cottage was as rare as blackberries in December. They would not have lived there at all, but that the cottage was their own--or, rather, Joan's. It had been left to her by will, with the condition that they should live in it themselves.

The cottage was not an ordinary one; its walls were built of small blocks of mica and porphyry--much of the porphyry being of that lovely deep-pink kind, with blotchings of black hornblende, all of which a long century or more of weather had polished to the smoothness of glass. Joan said the weather had nothing whatever to do with it, and that it was done by the dear Little People [13] who, she declared, lived in the carn near where the cottage stood. But whoever polished the walls--weather or fairies--the house was a pleasure to look at, particularly when the sun began to sink behind the moors and shone full upon its walls; for then all the richness of the porphyry's rose, all the hornblende's soft blackness, and all the mica's brilliancy, were brought out of the stone, and intensified until a less imaginative person than Joan Trebisken would have believed it was built by enchantment. Even its commonplace roof of brown thatch, which overspread the small casement windows in shaggy raggedness, did not take from the burning wonder of the walls. Perhaps it was because a company of stone-crop had found a dwelling-place there, and that on the ridge of the roof stood out in red distinctness half a dozen Pysgy-pows [14]--curious little round-knobbed tiles placed there by Joan's forebears for the Piskeys to dance on.

Joan, poor soul, seldom saw the outside splendour of their cottage, as she was powerless to move from her chair without help, and when her Tom came home, his face was the only thing she wanted to see, she said. Fortunately, however, her doors and windows opened on to the moor, and she could therefore command from where she sat a long stretch of moorland, which, though wild, was none the less beautiful at every season of the year, but especially in the springtime, when the yellow broom and golden gorse were in flower.

In spite of its loneliness, Joan loved the moor with all her Celtic nature, and spent most of her day looking out upon it until the days shortened and Nisdhu, the Black Month, which the Cornish of our time call November, drew near.

Nobody dreaded that dark month, with its damp clinging cold, its fogs and mists, which often veiled the whole landscape, including the great carns, more than Joan. She said she felt the chill of its breath before it showed its nose over the head of Carn Kenidzhek, and was careful to shut her door and hatch and her small casement-windows before October was half through. She was sorry to do this, and would not have done so but for the pain in her bones, which was always worse when November was on its way; for she shut out, she said, the music of the Small People's voices.

Tom told her it wasn't the voices of the Wee Folk she heard, but the trickling of a little stream making its way down by the carn on its way across the moor. But she declared she knew better, and had ears to distinguish between the tinkle of water and the sweet voices of the dear Little People, if he had not, and Tom, like a sensible man, let her hold to her belief.

Joan was a great believer in the fairies, and often declared they were very friendly towards her--perhaps because her forebears had put the pysgy-pows on the roof of their cottage for them to dance on. It was her regret that she had never seen any of the dear little creatures; but she lived in hope of seeing them some day; perhaps when the much-cried-for little maid came she should see them then, she said.

It was now towards the end of October and exceedingly cold, and her door and window being shut, she felt very wisht; [15] and as the days jogged on to dreary November she became terribly depressed, so much so that Tom dreaded to leave her sitting all alone by the chimney-corner with a face as long as a fiddle.

He was one of the kindest husbands in the world, and never went to his work without doing all that lay in his power to make her comfortable while he was away. She was generally very appreciative and grateful for all he did for her; but to-day--the day on which something happened to alter the whole circumstances of her life--she grumbled at everything he did, even when he piled dry peat and furze within her reach, filled the kettle and put it on the brandis, [16] and placed her dinner on a small table by her side. She would not even look at him, or say good-bye, when at last he had to go off to the mine in the dark of the autumnal morning, which made her feel more sad than ever when he was out of her sight.

A fog of depression hung over her spirits all that long day, and the weather, as if to share her gloom, was foggy too. She could not see a yard beyond her window most of the day; and when the mist did lift for a little while, it took such fantastic forms she was glad when it again hung down like a curtain.

When the hour for Tom's return at last drew near she grew more cheerful. She put on the last of the furze he had placed within reach of her hand, partly to boil the kettle and to light him down the road leading to their cottage, but chiefly to make her kitchen cheery-looking to make up for his cold send-off.

She was on the watch now for his step, and her face grew brighter as she listened. The kettle was crooning on the fire and everything was warm in cheerful welcome as a step was heard on the hard road outside, and a hand fumbled at the door-latch.

Joan, being all impatience to see her man, cried out:

'What are 'ee so stupid about, an? Give the door a shove, soas! [17] 'Tis sticked by the damp.'

She had scarcely said this when the door and its hatch opened gently, and in the doorway stood--not her husband, as she supposed, but the bent figure of a tiny old woman with a small costan, or bramble-basket, on her back. Her slight form was enveloped in a cloak the colour of far-away hills, and her face hidden in the depths of a large bonnet, such as the mine-maidens wear at their work in the mines.

Joan was too amazed to see a stranger at her door to ask what she wanted, and before she could get over her surprise, the little old woman had come into the cottage, stepped noiselessly to the hearthplace, unslung the costan, and laid it at her feet, singing as she did so a curious rhyme in a voice so wild and sweet, it reminded Joan, as she listened, which she did as one in a dream, of moor-birds' music and rippling streams, and the voices of the Small People who lived among the carns. The rhyme was as follows:

'I bring thee and leave thee my little mudgeskerry! [18]
My dinky, [19] my dear!
Till the day of that year
When the spells shall be broken--
And this is the token--
By Magic and Pail
And the Skavarnak's [20] wail,
My ninnie, my dinnie, my little mudgeskerry!

'Then we to the carns will away, my pednpaley [21]
My deary, my tweet!
Where the Small People's feet
Tread out the Birth measure,
To give her a treasure
From out of the blue,
When she shall know too
'Tis better to give than to keep my pednpaley.'

The song and its music had hardly died away, when the tiny old woman spread her hands over the bramble-basket, as if in blessing, and then stole out of the cottage as noiselessly and mysteriously as she had come.

Joan was all of a tremble quite five minutes after she had gone, and when she had somewhat recovered herself, her glance fell on the costan. At first she was afraid what it contained; but her woman's curiosity got the better of her fears, and, bending over the rough basket, she turned over the bracken, laid in careful order on its top, and saw lying on a bed of dried moss and leaves something that brought a cry of amazement, mingled with horror, to her lips.

It was a babe, but so tiny and so ugly that she shuddered as she gazed upon it. It was in a deep sleep, or seemed to be, and its skinny little face, crinkled all over like a poppy just out of its sheath, was resting on its claw-like hand.

In all her dreams of a child coming to her home, Joan had never dreamt of anything so uncanny as this babe, and she told herself that the little creature in its costan cradle was sent to punish her for her persistent desire for a child.

Tom arrived just then, and soon knew all that his wife could tell of the mysterious coming and going of the little old woman in the bal-bonnet, and of her strange song; and, like Joan, when he looked into the bramble-basket and saw the bit of ugliness within, he gave voice to a cry of horror that anything so uncanny should be left on their hands. In fact, he was so angry that he wanted to take the basket and all it held on to the moor, and let her who brought it come and take it away, for have it in his house he would not--no, not for all the crocks of gold the Little People were said to have in their keeping.

The night was bitterly cold, and by little moans and sighs coming from the direction of the Hooting Carn Joan could tell the wind was about to rise, and would perhaps end in a great storm. And though she was so much upset at having such an ugly little creature thrust on them, she was too tender-hearted to wish it to be exposed even for an hour on their moor on such a night. Besides, the child was helpless, whosoever child it was, and therefore demanded compassion, and she begged her husband to allow it to stay in their house until to-morrow.

Tom could seldom refuse his crippled wife anything when her heart was set upon it, and, though much against his inclination, he yielded to her entreaties; but he was careful to add that he could only suffer it to stay until he was ready to start for the bal.

'Whatever the weather then, fair or foul, out it shall go on the moor!' he cried. 'It is a changeling,' he added, with a solemn shake of his head, 'and if we was to let it abide along o' we, we should have nothing but bad luck all the rest of our days.'

Joan, having got her way, did not care to contradict her husband; for she told herself the song the little old woman had sung pointed to something quite different. Still, she would not keep the babe longer than the morrow if he were against it.

When bedtime came, Tom and Joan had quite a dispute as to where the strange cradle and its stranger occupant should be put for the night, and as neither of them could decide, and Tom was against its being taken up into the bed-chamber, Joan declared she would sit up with it all night, and nothing Tom could say should prevent her. So he went off to his bed in a huff, muttering loudly that the cheeld, [22] or 'whatever it was,' had brought misery to them already.

Joan kept to her resolve, and sat in her armchair with the bramble-basket at her feet until well on towards the dawn, when Tom came down to see how she was faring, and found, to his surprise, she was as fresh as a rose just gathered.

'An' I ent sleepy nuther!' she cried in triumph. 'I ent felt so well since I was took with the rheumatics, and me hands don't look so twisted, do they?' holding them up. ''Tis my belief 'tis all owing to that little cheeld down there in the costan.'

As Tom could not gainsay this, he went off to do his morning's work, and to get Joan's breakfast. By the time he had done this the sun was rising, and the sky, away in the east, was a miracle of purple and rose. The night had been wild, but the storm having exhausted itself, the dawn was all the more beautiful.

The babe was still asleep, and had not moved all night, Joan said, and Tom fervently hoped it would not until it was safe out on the moor. But he hoped in vain, for when the sun began to wheel up behind the hills in the east, and sent a beam of rosy light in at the casement window, the little creature shuffled in the costan, and when Joan, willing to give it air, pushed back its covering of bracken, it opened its eyes and smiled, and that smile transformed its whole face.

'Why, Tom, my man,' she cried, 'the little dear isn't ugly one bit; an' the little eyes of it are as soft as moor-pools! Do 'ee come and have a squint at it.'

Tom came, and when he had stared at the babe a minute or more, he said slowly, as if weighing his words:

'You be right, Joan; but it do make the mystery all the more queer. A cheeld that can look as ugly as nettles one minute and as pretty as flowers the next ent for we to keep.'

'Don't 'ee betray thy ignorance where babes is concerned!' cried Joan, fearful of what his words implied. 'Some do look terrible plain in their sleep--as this poor dear did--and some do look beautiful. 'Tis as Nature made 'em--bless their hearts!'

The babe now turned her eyes on Tom, and was gazing on him as if she wanted to look into his very soul, and then, as if she quite approved of what she saw there, gave him a fascinating smile, which won his heart at once.

'You won't take the cheeld out on the moors to-day, Tom, will 'ee?' asked Joan, who was quick to see the change in her man's face.

'We will keep it till I come home from the bal, at any rate,' he said cautiously. And then the babe, as if to show its gratitude for the concession, held up both its little arms to him to be taken out of its costan cradle, whereupon Tom was so delighted at being preferred before his wife that he could hardly conceal his pride.

'That infant do knaw a thing or two, whatever it be,' said Joan to herself, with a chuckle. 'And 'tis a somebody, I can tell, by her little shift and things, which do look as if they was spun out of spiders' webs by the Small People, so fine an' silky they be!'

There was no question now about the little stranger staying; but, all the same, Tom went off to the mine with many misgivings, and he said to himself, as he walked quickly over the moor, that if Joan were too helpless to do for herself, how was she going to tend a babe? And that thought troubled him all the day.

But his fears were needless; for when he got home that evening and looked in at the door, he saw a sight which surprised him, yet gladdened his heart. Joan was sitting in her elbow-chair, with a face as bright as a moon in a cloudless sky, cuddling the strange babe, who was babbling to the kind face looking down into it as it lay in her arms.

'However did 'ee manage to lift the cheeld on to your lap, Joan?' he asked, when his wife saw him.

'Aw! we managed somehow or tuther between us,' she answered, with a happy laugh. 'It was as light as a feather, it was,' chirping to the babe, 'an' I do think the Small People gave it a hoist on to Mammie Trebisken's lap! Eh, my handsome?' speaking to the babe. 'An' it haven't a been a mite o' trouble nuther all this blessed day!' And then, looking up at Tom with a look he never forgot: 'An' it have a-lifted the latch of my loneliness, an' I am as happy as a queen!'

Tom was thankful to hear all this, and he thought it was no accident that had brought such comfort to his poor lonely wife. He had still greater cause for thankfulness as the days wore on; for as Joan now had her thoughts taken from herself in having a babe--which, by the way, was a maiden babe--to think for and to attend to as far as she was able, she grew better in health, and before winter was over could go about the house-place 'and do all her little chores her own self,' she proudly declared. She even swept and sanded her kitchen floor, and made figgy hoggans [23] for her husband's dinner, which she had not been able to do since the early years of their marriage.

There were, however, a few things Joan could not do; but as they were all done for her in some mysterious way, and much better than she herself could have done, it was more a matter for rejoicing than regret. Whenever she put her washing out in the backlet [24] to wait till Tom had time to do it, somebody took it away, and brought it back washed and dried and ironed--all looking as white as May-blossom and smelling as sweet as moor-flowers!

She was never certain who did this kindness for her, but in her heart she believed it was either done by the little old woman who brought the babe or the Small People.

Several happy years passed away, and the little child--Ninnie-Dinnie, as they called her--so strangely brought to the moorland cottage and so strangely left, was now able to return some of her foster-parents' kindness. This she did by helping in small household duties.

Joan, partly because it was right and partly because she feared the rheumatism might some day make her helpless again, had brought her up to be useful.

The child did not at all like work, and, but for Joan's insistence, would have been a regular little do-nothing. Perhaps she would have spared the little maid from many a small household duty if the Pail had allowed it!

In shaking up the moss and leaves in the bramble-basket the evening the mysterious little woman brought it to the cottage, Tom had found at the feet of the babe a small dark Pail, which he said must have been shaped out of a block of black tin left by the Old Men, or ancient Jews, who, ages before the art of turning black tin into white was discovered, worked the Cornish tin-mines. It was very crude, and had nothing remarkable about it save for its look of age and some curious characters cut under its rim, and which, of course, neither he nor his wife could read.

They thought the Pail was put into the bramble-basket for the child to play with, and telling themselves they would give her a better plaything when she was old enough, they set it on the dresser.

They were soon to learn that the Pail was something more than a child's toy, and had strange properties of making itself light or dark at will, thrusting its characters out of the metal in strong relief from its surface and withdrawing them again!

Tom declared it had in some mysterious way to do with the little creature's welfare, and that it was a kind of conscience--a Small People's conscience, perhaps. But Joan said she believed it was something more than that, if there was any meaning in the words of the song the dinky old woman in the bal-bonnet had sung.

But, whoever was right, there was no doubt that the Pail showed its approval or disapproval of whatever Ninnie-Dinnie did! If the little maid was especially helpful and kind, the Pail became a lovely shade of silver and gray, and its letters stood out in glittering distinctness; but if she was lazy, or spoke rudely to her foster-parents, it grew darker than hornblende, and its characters were hardly visible.

This strange property of the Pail made Joan feel quite creepy when she first discovered its peculiarity, which she happened to do one day when Ninnie-Dinnie was very fractious and would do nothing she was bidden. She got used to it in time, and was even glad it showed its pleasure, or otherwise, in the manner it did.

She often told her husband that, when the little maid was particularly kind to her when he was at the bal, the Pail would laugh all over its sides.

Ninnie-Dinnie was now in her eighth year, counting the year she was brought to the cottage, and a dear, useful little maid she was; and no one to beat her anywhere for work, Tom declared, particularly when her size was considered.

The child was very small, so small that she could still sleep in the basket cradle she came in--and did too, for the simple reason that she was wakeful all night if she slept anywhere else.

Both Tom and Joan were sometimes troubled at her size. For she never seemed to grow bigger or fatter, whatever they gave her to eat, and they feared she would always be a little Go-by-the-ground. [25] Joan, however, consoled herself that perhaps she was an off relation of the dear Little People.

Although Ninnie-Dinnie was exceedingly tiny, she was very sharp, and asked more questions in a day than they could answer in a year. She wanted to know the why and wherefore of everything--what the moor-flowers were made of, and who lived inside the great grey carns, and what made Carn Kenidzhek hoot--was it the giant who lived inside it?--and much besides that neither Tom nor Joan could answer, because they did not know themselves.

Tom said she was wise beyond her years, and all owing to her being moped in the cottage so much, and that she ought to be out of doors more. Joan quite agreed with him, and suggested that he should take her with him sometimes over the moor, only stipulating that she was not to go as far as the mine-works.