“No, she cannot take Katie’s place; no one can do that; but she shall
have her own place in my train, close at my right hand. Where is the
child; have you brought her to Fairyland?” And the rabbit said, “I have
brought her, gracious queen.”
So Mateel was brought into the presence of the king and queen and their
court, and the queen, touching her with her shining wand, changed her
into a bonny brown fairy, with shining brown eyes, and a beautiful dress
made of petals of the red rose; for she was among the maids of honor
most dearly loved by Titania. But the question of Katie’s guilt or
innocence is still unsettled; for on summer nights you will hear the
fairy lawyers still declaring that “Katie did” and “Katie didn’t.”
V.
BRAN, THE WOLF DOG.
On a high cliff overlooking the ocean, on the western coast of Ireland,
stand the ruins of an old castle. The short grass grows on the floor of
the great hall, and the wind sighs and howls through its broken walls,
with a sound half human, half animal.
The peasants for generations have named it “The Wolf’s Castle.” Even
long years ago, when it was tenanted by kindly folk and was running over
with life and happiness, it had already earned its grim name.
Max had been out hunting. He had spent the day in the woods and fields,
and now as night fell, dark and lowering, he hastened his steps. The
first scattering drops of rain struck his face, and the wind was rising.
It moaned and howled like the distant cry of a wolf; it made Max feel
strangely nervous and frightened. “Frightened!”—he laughed at the
thought. “A boy of twelve frightened by the wind!”
And yet, listen! the patter of the rain (coming faster now) sounds on
the leaves like the stealthy tread of some animal.
“If it is a wolf, it is the ghost of one; for there are no wolves in
this country now,” thought Max. “How like a sigh from human lips the
wind sounds!”
“Home at last, I am thankful to say;” and Max ran swiftly round to the
back door. As he closed it, the wind gave a long-drawn wail, and he
almost fancied a hand strove to draw him back into the darkness.
“I think I need my supper,” thought he. “Fasting makes a fellow
light-headed.”
Entering the kitchen with exultant heart but studied indifference, he
threw his game down on the table before the admiring cook, and then
hastened to change his dress. Soon, over a good supper, he had forgotten
the uncanny night outside, though the wind still howled and the rain
beat against the window.
After supper Max went into the library. How cosy and comfortable it was,
with a fire in the grate, an easy-chair drawn in front of it, and the
shadows dancing over books and pictures!
“I’ll sit here in front of the fire and rest,” thought he. He sat there
mentally reviewing the day’s sport. “I need a good dog,” he said. “I
must have one. Why, what is that?” For there, lying in front of the
fire, basking in the heat, was an immense dog, with shaggy coat and
pointed ears. Max called to him:—
“Here, old fellow; here, Bran,—why, he knows his name. How did I come to
know it, I wonder!” For at the first call, the dog had raised his head
and beat his great tail upon the floor. At the mention of his name he
sprang to his feet, and came crouching and trembling with joy to lick
the hands and shoes of the lad.
“What is it then, good dog? Tell me your story, for I’m sure you have
one to tell,” coaxed Max.
Did he tell it, or did Max dream? For as the dog rested his head on the
boy’s knee and looked with liquid, loving eyes into his face, Max
glanced round the room and saw a strange transformation: the walls
widened, the ceiling rose to a greater height, and was crossed by great
black beams. On the walls hung shields, spears, great swords, and
numerous other articles of war and of the chase.
The polished grate had grown into an immense fireplace, and the floor
was covered with what Max supposed were rushes. But the people in the
room interested him most of all. On the opposite side of the fireplace,
in a great carven chair, sat a lady, young and very lovely,—her dress
some rich dark green material clasped at the throat and waist by heavy
golden clasps, her bare arms heavy with gold armlets, her long black
hair falling in shining waves around her, and her eyes,—the sea was in
them,—gray or dark blue, and in moments of anger flashing greenish
yellow like the eyes of some animal.
She sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, her head resting on her
hand, looking into the fire and listening to the music of an ancient
harper, who sat in the background, softly striking the chords of his
harp.
The firelight, dancing over the room, caused strange shadows; and Max
fancied himself one of the shadows, for his chair was filled by a boy of
his own age, sitting just as he had been sitting, with the great dog’s
head on his knee; and notwithstanding his strange dress, Max started
with a feeling almost of terror, for the boy was his double; it was like
seeing himself in the glass.
A storm was raging around the castle, and above the soft music of the
harp could be heard the rush of the wind, and the roar of the ocean
dashing at the foot of the cliff.
The lady shivered and glanced round the room. “I wish your father were
home, Patrick. How glad I shall be when peace comes again.”
“I wish I were old enough to lead the clan to battle, then father could
remain with you.”
“What? become a dotard? Out upon you!” Her eyes flashed at the boy, and
the dog, raising his head, gave a low growl. “Why do you not have that
beast speared? You know I hate him,” said the lady.
“He was given to me (as you know) by the good fathers at the monastery.
They told me always to cherish Bran, for he would save me from demons,
as well as wolves. See the silver crosses on his collar. Nothing can
harm us while Bran is here.”
The lady cast a look of fear and hatred at the boy and the dog. “Be not
too sure,” she said. Springing to her feet, she walked back and forth
through the room. Her step was smooth and graceful; she made no sound on
the rushes as she walked.
Presently there came a lull in the storm, and from somewhere back in the
hills came the howl of a wolf. The lady paused and listened, then
turning to the boy she said in a hurried manner, while her eyes sought
the floor: “I feel ill; I am going to my room. Let no one disturb me
to-morrow; if I need help I will call.” And as she turned to leave the
room, suddenly she paused. “Get you to bed, Patrick, chain up that dog,
and—you are the hope and pride of your father—I lay my commands on
you—do not hunt to-morrow.”
Then the lady was gone; but Bran was trembling and growling. “He heard
the wolves howl,” said Patrick to the harper. The old man looked into
the fire and was silent.
Presently Patrick arose, and bidding the harper good-night, went to his
room, closely followed at the heels by the great dog. To his surprise,
awaiting him in his room was the housekeeper, an ancient woman, who had
been his father’s nurse. She rose when Patrick entered, and came toward
him.
“My mind is troubled, child,” she said; “I must tell you my story.”
“What is it, nurse?”
“It is about my lady Eileen, your stepmother. May I speak?”
“Tell on,” said Patrick. “But remember, I will hear nothing against my
lady;” for he well knew that the nurse bore the young stepmother no good
will.
“Well, listen, child. You were not here when your father married my
lady. You had not left the monastery where your father placed you for
safety while he was beyond seas. I must tell you first how she came
here.
“Fingal, the huntsman, told me that one day, when your father was
hunting alone, he was followed all day by a wolf. It would lurk from one
hillock to another, but when he turned to pursue it, it would disappear.
Finally, at noon, when he sat down to rest, it came creeping and fawning
to his feet. He was tempted to spear it, but did not, out of surprise.
Presently it disappeared; but in the gloaming it returned, and followed
him clear to the gate of the castle. This my lord told to Fingal, and
greatly did he marvel. That same night,” whispered the nurse,
mysteriously, “came a call for help, and when the gate was opened, there
stood a beautiful woman (my lady Eileen) who told how she had lost her
way and her company as she journeyed to St. Hilda’s shrine. Your father
bade her enter, and she has abode here ever since; for soon he married
her, and she became our lady.”
“Well, well, nurse, I knew of her coming, and I know also that she was
no waif, but of a noble house and high lineage, as her coat of arms
bears witness,—a wolf couchant. But why explain all this to you? Right
glad am I that she came to gladden my father’s heart and brighten our
home.”
“Yes, child, but listen; this only brings me to my story. My lady has
strange spells of illness, and always after a wolf howls.” The boy
started impatiently, but the old dame, laying her hand on his arm,
compelled him to listen. “The last time it was moonlight. I was up in
the turret opposite her window; her lamp was lit, and I saw a strange
sight. My lady was springing with long leaps backward and forward over
the floor, and wringing her hands. Presently she went to her closet,
took from it a wolf’s skin, slipped it over her dress, and I do not know
how she got outside the walls, but I saw her presently speeding away
with long leaps toward the hills.”
“Nurse, nurse, are you crazy? It is my lady of whom you speak. Never let
me hear you breathe that story again. Think of my father’s wrath, should
this come to his ears.”
Still the old woman shook her head and mumbled in wrath, and speedily
betook herself away; while Patrick, laughing heartily at her foolish
story, went to bed. But all night above the roar of the storm could be
heard the howling of wolves.
The morning broke wild and gloomy; the castle seemed lonely and dreary
without the cheery presence of Lady Eileen. Patrick went once to her
door and knocked, but received no answer. Presently Fingal, the
huntsman, came in, armed for the chase. Bran followed close at his
heels. “Will my lord hunt to-day? The wolves were among the flocks last
night, the shepherds tell me.”
Patrick hesitated, remembering his lady’s commands, but he decided
finally to go. Soon he was ready, and issuing from the gates, he and
Fingal and the dog were lost in the mists that enveloped the hills.
Long did the household wait their return. Night was brooding: over the
castle when Fingal’s horn was heard at the gate. In answer to the
warder’s call his voice came sternly through the night: “Bring help, and
come quickly; my lady is dead.” To the grievous outcries and questions
that arose he would return no answer.
Soon an excited group were hurrying toward the hills, and presently the
torches revealed a sad sight. The first to come into view was their
young lord, crouching on the ground, with the dog’s head clasped in his
arms; Bran’s throat had been torn and mangled, and he had been thrust
through with a spear. Patrick was wounded and torn in many places; blood
was flowing down his face and throat, and his tears were falling on the
dog’s head. Not far away lay Lady Eileen, quite dead. Very beautiful and
placid she looked, as if sleeping; but on her throat were marks of great
teeth.
“Take up my lady and bear her to the castle,” said Patrick; “as for
Bran, you must bury him here.”
“Nay, child, he is only a dead dog,” said the old nurse, fussily. But
she was met by a stern command to be quiet.
“Do as I bid you,” he said to the servants, and then added, “The good
dog went mad, and attacked my lady. I could not save her. Let my father
know this, should I die;” and then the boy fell backward, fainting.
To the father it was a sad home-coming when, a few days later, he
returned from war,—his beautiful young wife lying cold and dead in the
chapel; his son very ill, calling always for Bran to save him from some
deadly peril.
Greatly the household marvelled how their lady came to be out in the
mist and the storm, alone on the hills; but Fingal, the huntsman, sought
his two gossips, the nurse and the harper, and told this tale of the
day’s hunt.
“We had followed the wolves all day, and several had been killed. But
there was one gray wolf, who seemed the leader of the pack. This one my
lord singled out, and followed from valley to valley. Bran would not
pursue it, but slunk and cowered after his master, whining pitifully.
All day we followed it, until, late in the gloaming, it had headed
toward the castle; and we pressed it hard. It finally turned at bay,
and, springing at my lord’s throat, it brought him to the ground. Bran
was lagging behind, and I was urging him forward. When he heard my
lord’s cries, the dog flew at the wolf. The beast then turned on the
dog, and as I ran to help to spear it, I saw—” here the huntsman’s voice
sank into a whisper—“I saw no wolf, but my lady, tearing and rending the
dog, while Bran’s teeth were buried in her throat.
“‘Separate them! save them!’ cried my lord; and I, not knowing what else
to do, watched my chance and thrust the dog through the body. He sank
without a groan, relaxing his grasp on my lady’s throat. My lord gave a
cry of despair, and my lady, hearing it, crept over to him and
whispering, ‘Forgive; I could not help it,’ sank dead at his feet. But
Lord Patrick passed her by, and threw himself down by the dog; while I,
half distraught, came home for help.”
Then said the nurse, “See that you hold your tongue, man, for if this
story come to the ears of my lord, your body will want a head.”
But from that time forth the Lady Eileen was spoken of as “The Wolf
Lady,” and in time, the grim name of the “Wolf’s Castle” clung to her
old home.
In the years that came and passed, Patrick became chief in his father’s
place; and then a cairn was raised over the body of the faithful dog.
Max awoke to find the fire out; shivered, and sprang to his feet. “What
a strange dream!” he said.
VI.
THE CORN FAIRY.
Little Theo sat up in bed and looked out of the window. “It’s going to
be a nice day; the little girl will be in the corn. We will play all day
long. I must hurry; she doesn’t like to wait.”
Presently, her breakfast eaten and her little tasks all finished, she
was running as fast as her feet would carry her toward the wide fields
of Indian corn. In a few moments the great blades were rustling above
her head. They formed green arches, down whose long vistas the little
girl eagerly peered. Soon, with a satisfied laugh, she ran with
outstretched hands down the corn rows, and her voice came back
chattering, laughing, asking and answering questions.
Theo’s mother had often heard her speak of the little girl, or young
lady, or old lady, who played or talked with her in the cornfield; but
being a very busy woman, and having little time to give the child, she
did not pay much attention. If she heeded at all, she thought some
neighbor or her children had met the little girl while passing through
the cornfield. To-day her attention had been aroused, and she began to
wonder who it was that Theo was so eager to meet.
So when Theo ran down to the cornfield, her mother followed closely. She
saw her disappear in the corn, and marking the place, hurried after. She
could hear the child’s voice close at hand, and another’s, that sounded
sometimes like a human voice, and again like the wind sighing in the
corn. After a short search, she saw at a distance her little daughter.
But what was she doing? Clasping in her arms a group of cornstalks, and
looking lovingly up among the green waving blades. But stay. Were they
cornstalks? It surely was a beautiful young woman, dressed in trailing
robes of green silk; her hair the color of corn silk, waving around her
face and neck.
The little girl playfully clasped her knees, while the lady, laughing,
bent over her, swaying and bending as corn does in the wind. “Am I
losing my senses, or am I bewitched?” wondered the mother. She was
tempted to call her child to her, and take her away from the field, but
she seemed so happy.
Presently Theo sprang away from the corn, and called back, “You cannot
catch me.” The wind suddenly blew the tossing corn-blades together. When
it lulled again, she saw her little girl running down the row, and close
in pursuit ran the young woman. No, stay. It was a child, following
closely after Theo. On they ran, laughing, calling, and presently they
came back, panting.
Theo flung herself down to rest in the shade of the corn, and so did the
little girl. But now, it was not a little girl, but an old woman who sat
there. Her face, half hidden by her hood, was wrinkled and yellow. She
had a long cloak, with the hood closely drawn over her head. Her
clothing was made of some material the color of cornhusks, and was
coarse and stiff.
Theo rested her elbow on the old woman’s knee, and looked up into her
face. “I almost think I like you best this way,” she said. “You make me
think of such comfortable things,—gathering nuts and apples, and of
pumpkin-pie, and—and—Christmas, and going to grandpa’s on Thanksgiving.”
The old woman nodded and sighed.
“Do you feel sad again?” Again she nodded.
“About the corn-husking?” A nod.
“But you know next summer will come, and you can begin all over again.”
Just here Theo’s mother thought, “I must stop this; the child is talking
either to a ghost or a witch. Theo,” she called, “come to me.”
The child sprang up from her seat and came to her mother, rubbing her
eyes.
“Now, mamma, you’ve frightened her away; she won’t come back again
to-day. She doesn’t like folks.”
“Theo, who in the world are you talking about; and why do you race up
and down the corn rows, laughing and chattering to yourself?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, mamma; but first let us go to the house; she might
not like to hear me.”
Soon after, they were seated in the cool shaded parlor. The mother took
the little girl on her lap. “Now, Theo, tell me,” she said. So the
little child began.
“Well, mamma, it began long ago, by me being so lonesome. I haven’t any
one to play with, and one day I was out in the cornfield when the corn
was just as high as me. And I spoke out loud, and I said, ‘Oh, dear,
what shall I do for some one to play with me? I shall go distracted’ (I
have heard you say that word, mamma)! And I said, ‘I wish a little girl
would grow out of those cornstalks;’ and just as I said that, the stalks
parted, and out stepped the nicest little girl. She was so pretty! She
had such curling brown hair, and blue eyes, and her dress was of green
silk; and when she laughed, her teeth looked like little grains of white
corn, and she was rubbing her eyes, as though she had just waked up. And
she knew me, mamma; she said, ‘Why, Theo, did you come to play with me?’
and pretty soon we were the best friends you ever saw. And every day we
played and played; only she never would tell me where she lived, and she
wouldn’t ever come home with me to play. But one day, when the corn had
grown way high above my head, and the roasting ears were getting ripe,
she changed all at once into such a pretty young lady. At first I cried,
for I didn’t want to lose my little girl; but the young lady was so
lovely, mamma, and she sang to me, and we talked; and so one day last
fall, when the cornstalks were turning yellow, I found my young lady had
changed into an old one. And I was afraid of her at first, she was so
bent over, and was queer looking. But I got real well acquainted with
her, and she told me stories about gathering nuts, and about squirrels
and birds, and oh, lots of things, and I just love her now!
“Well, I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t pay much ’tention when I
talked to you; so, when husking time came, my poor old lady wrung her
hands and cried, and told me good-bye, and I just couldn’t ’dure to see
her go, and my dear cornfield torn down, and I have felt so lonesome.
“Well, this summer, the little girl came back, when the corn was tall
enough for us to play in; and now we know each other so well that she
changes just for fun, from a little girl to a young lady, and then to an
old one; and she keeps me uneasy, mamma, for I never know just when she
will change. She told me once she was an Indian woman, and that she was
civilized now,—and that’s all.”
Theo ended with a sigh of relief that the story was told. The mother
looked at the child long and curiously. “Well, I declare!” she said. But
that night she said to Theo’s papa: “We must send Theo to school. The
child’s head is filled with all sorts of nonsense; it’s time she was
taught something sensible; and, if I were in your place, I would turn
that cornfield into pasture-land, and invest in more cattle.”
“I have been thinking of that myself,” he answered.
By and by the mother asked, “John, was that cornfield ever used by the
Indians as a burial place, or anything?”
“I don’t know,” he answered musingly. “I used to plow up arrow-heads,
and pipe-bowls of red sandstone, when I first broke the prairie sod. Why
do you ask?”
“Oh, just because,” she answered.
VII.
AT THE WAYSIDE CROSS.
There is a border land that lies just beyond this everyday life, but not
within the bounds of dreamland. We call it, for want of a better name,
“The land of fancy, or of waking dreams.”
A young mother lay in her white bed, and close in her arms nestled the
little soul whose life journey was just beginning. It was twilight time,
and the mother lay half asleep, half awake, close on the confines of
that border land.
The rain beating on the window, the fire purring in the grate, played a
soft accompaniment to her thoughts.
“What will my little baby’s life be,—happy or sad?” questioned the
mother. “Oh, dear All-Father, if I might know!” thus she prayed. And
while she asked and wondered, a soft rustle by her bedside caused her to
glance up. Above her and the sleeping baby leaned a tall bright angel,
in garments soft and white like snow, with folded wings like the petals
of some great white lily. “What is it,” wondered the mother; and a soft
voice answered: “I am your baby’s angel. Your prayer has been heard.
Look.” And the mother, following the angel’s glance, saw at the foot of
the bed three gray shapes, three mysterious woman forms. There they sat,
solemnly regarding the little one. In the hands of one was what the
mother knew to be a distaff; from it, a fine thread passed to the baby’s
hand. “Ah, that is why you clasp your hands so tightly, my darling, lest
you lose the thread,” said the mother.
The next sister held a pair of shears in her hand; her eyes were sad and
downcast. The last one had empty hands, but she spoke with authority,
and she said: “Sisters, this new soul is bound for the city on the
heights of Peace. How shall she reach it?”
Then spoke the one with the distaff: “Ah, sister, she is little and
weak. She is a woman child. May she not go by the way that leads through
the valley, where there is pleasant shade, and the birds sing all day
long?”
The eldest answered: “Who that takes that route reaches the city? Do
they not wander away into the defiles of the mountains, and the heights
are lost to them? Nay, sisters, she shall go by the way of tears till
she come to the wayside cross.”
Then the pitying one raised the shears to cut the tiny thread of life,
but the other stayed her hand. “Let me read to you her destiny,” she
said.
The angel bent low over the mother and child. “Be strong, be
courageous,” he whispered; and the mother’s fears were stilled.
Then spoke the Fate: “This soul shall early be acquainted with sorrow;
and the angel of pain shall walk hand in hand with her. But close beside
shall walk the angel of patience. Her little feet shall be pierced with
thorns and bruised with cruel rocks. But beside the stony path sweet
flowers will bloom. She will hear the lark sing up in the blue, and at
every turn in the path she will look backward and see that she is
climbing higher. Sometimes, to strengthen her, shall be given her
glimpses of the wonderful city. And always her guardian angel shall be
with her to minister to her.
“As the years go by, she will not journey alone. She will be happy, for
love will lighten the way. Then suddenly shall she come to the wayside
cross. There a great horror of darkness shall settle over her, her
strength shall be taken from her, and she shall lie with her face in the
dust.
“But at the cross, the clouds will separate, the mists roll away, and
she will find her journey almost accomplished. For behold, from it a
wonderful stairway of pearl and gold leads up into the heart of the
city; and her loved ones will hasten to greet her, and stretch out their
hands to help her on her way. She will have gained the heights of Peace,
and will be an inhabitant of that wonderful country, a citizen of the
golden city.”
Then the mother, weeping tears of sorrow and of joy, was satisfied, and
the tiny baby stirred in its sleep, and nestled closer to her heart.
VIII.
IN QUEST OF THE DARK.
Little Gene, up at the castle, was missing. The night had come on, and
the woods that inclosed the cliff on which the castle stood, and that
swept down the valley and up the opposite heights, were hushed and
still, or sighing dolefully in the summer wind. The servants were out
with torches, calling, and running in every direction. Some one
suggested letting out the dogs; but that, the lady would not allow. She
would not have the child torn to pieces by the great wolf-hounds, she
said. She sat in her room and wrung her hands in despair. For the
twentieth time she questioned the weeping nurse, who grew more
frightened and confused with each question.
“Most noble lady, I saw him last in the courtyard. He called to me and
said: ‘Nursie, I will run away out into the deep wood;’ and I answered
that the Dark would catch him if he did, and then he could never get
home again; and he said: ‘I am not afraid of the Dark. I will find him,
and tell him so; and I like the Dark.’ And then—I brought him into the
play-room, and I—”
“Stop right there!” cried the mother. “You did not bring him in. You
intended to do so; but in talking with the men-at-arms and other idlers,
you forgot my son; and now, he is either in the grasp of that robber
chief Montfort, or the wolves have found him.”
Here the mother’s and the nurse’s outcries blended; and if the nurse’s
shrieks were loudest, there may have been cause; for a noble dame’s
white hand could strike heavily, in those days.
The whole night through, the mother and the nurse mingled their tears
for their darling, while the search went on. The men-at-arms and
servants loved the boy, not only that he was the son of their lord but
for his own quaint ways and bonny face.
Early in the morning the seekers came straggling in, tired and hungry;
no trace had been found of the child. All feared to tell their lady of
their fruitless quest. She had not ceased, all night, to walk the floor,
weeping, and asking herself how she would dare tell her husband that
their boy was gone. The nurse crouched by the door, trembling, and in
sore distress; while the seekers asked of each other who was to tell
their mistress. While they lingered, a shout from the valley caused all
to hasten to the castle wall. A horse and rider came rapidly toward them
from under the trees; clasped in the rider’s arms was little Gene; his
yellow curls glistened against the man’s black armor.
Placing the child on the ground, the stranger bowed low to the lady,
turned his horse, and disappeared into the forest. The mother scarcely
saw him; her eyes were on her boy. She reached out her arms to him.
“Gene, little Gene, my dearest, come.” The little fellow kissed his hand
and waved it to her. Soon he was in her arms; and she held him close,
while she questioned him.
“Where have you been, Gene, and who was yon dark man who brought you
home?”
“That was the Dark, mamma. Nurse does always tell me that the Dark will
catch me; and when I say that I do not fear, she threatens to send me to
him. I asked her where he lived, and she said, ‘In the day-time, in the
great vaults under the castle;’ and I asked her where he lived at night,
and she said, ‘In the deep woods.’ So I said I would find him, and tell
him I did not fear him.”
“Did you think to frighten his father’s son with such baby lore?” asked
the lady of the nurse, scornfully.
“But continue, my son; tell me, how went you out from the castle?”
“There is a little door through which—but dear mamma, I cannot tell you
what is known only to the men-at-arms.”
The lady glanced round darkly. “This castle needeth its master sorely,”
she said. The men drew back abashed. The boy continued,—
“When I came out into the woods, I left the path that leads
away—away,”—he spread out his dimpled arms and looked far off,—“I know
not whither it goes, but I left it, and sought the deep wood. The
shadows are heavy there, and it is very still. While I stood under a
tree, uncertain which way to go, suddenly down toward me, through the
trees, came the Dark.”
“Holy Mary! it was some robber,” exclaimed the mother.
“No, mamma, I tell you, it was the Dark. He was very black; his armor
was black, and so were his beard and his eyes. He looked at me as though
he wanted to eat me. But I said, ‘Are you the Dark? I come to find you
and to tell you that I do not fear you.’ And then I looked at him, and
he laughed, and I said, ‘I think I am going to like you;’ and he said,
‘Who are you? Have you strayed from Fairyland?’
“So I told him who I was, and he frowned and said, ‘Careless woman, to
guard such a treasure so slackly.’ Who did he mean, mamma?”
The lady’s face flushed. “Continue, my son; did he harm you?”
“Oh, mamma, no. He found me some berries and a drink from a spring; and
then he showed me how, at his coming, the little birds went to sleep in
the trees, and the deer beneath them. And he showed me the stars, coming
out in the deep sky. And when I grew sleepy, he held me in his arms, and
sang of the white moths, and the glowworms; and the bird that sings at
night sang with him; and then I went to sleep. But when morning came he
found a great black horse, which was his; and so he brought me home, and
made me promise never to seek for him again. I did not want to promise,
only his eyes looked so that I feared him; so I promised; and he gave me
this keepsake, for my mamma.”
Here little Gene drew forth from his sleeve a piece of parchment, which
he handed to his mother.