Arrived there, she stopped for breath for a while, and then sent forth a

long "Coo-ie." No answer. "I was right," thought Billjim, "he is hurt.

My God! he may be dead out here, while we were there chatting and

laughing as usual. Oh, Jack, Jack!"

Up the gully she sped, from one abandoned working to another, over

rocks and stones, into water-holes, with no thought for herself. At

last, there, huddled up against the bank, with a huge boulder pinning

one leg to the ground, lay poor Jack L'Estrange.

Billjim's first impression was that he was dead, he looked so limp and

white out in the open there with the moon shining on his face, but when

her accustomed courage returned she stooped over him and found him

alive, but unconscious.

She bathed his temples with water, murmuring:

"Jack dear, wake up. Oh, my own lad, wake up and tell me what to do."

Jack opened his eyes at last, as if her soft crooning had reached his

numbed senses.

"Halloa, Billjim," he said faintly. "Is that you or a dream?"

"It's me, Jack," replied Billjim, flinging school talk to the four

winds. "It's me. What can I do? How can I help? Are you suffering much?"

"Well," said Jack, "you can't shift that boulder, that's certain, for

I've tried until I went off. It's not paining now much, seems numbed. Do

you think you could fetch the boys? Get Frenchy especially; he knows

something about bandaging and that. It's a case with the leg, I think."

"All right, dear," said Billjim; and the "dear" slipped out unawares,

but she went on hurriedly to cover the slip: "Yes, I'll get Frenchy and

Travers, Tate and Micky the Rat; they all live close together. You won't

faint again, Jack, will you? See, I'll leave this pannikin here with

water. Keep up your pecker, we shan't be long," and she was gone to hide

the tears in her eyes, and the choke in her voice. "It's a case with the

leg" was too much for her.

She was at Frenchy's camp in a very short time. Frenchy was at his fire,

dreaming. When he saw who his visitor was he was startled, to say the

least of it.

"What, Billjim the Beautiful? At this hour of night? Why, what in the

name of...?" were his incoherent ejaculations.

And Billjim for the first time in that eventful night really gave way.

She sat down and sobbed out:

"Oh, Frenchy.... Come.... Poor Jack.... Two mile ... crushed and

bleeding to death, Frenchy.... I saw the blood oozing out.... Oh, dear

me!... Get the boys ... come...."

Frenchy's only answer was a long, melodious howl, which was promptly

re-echoed from right and left and far away back in the scrub, and from

all sides forms hurried up clad in all sorts of strange night costumes.

Some shrank back into the shadows again on seeing a woman sitting at the

fire sobbing, but one and all as they hurried up asked:

"What's up? Niggers?"

They were told, and each hurried back for clothes. Frenchy got his

bandages together, and fetched his bunk out of his tent.

"We'll take this," he said; "it's as far from Jack's camp to the two

mile as it is from here. Now then, Billjim, off we go."

Her followers had to keep moving to keep near her, loaded as they were,

but at last they arrived at the scene of Jack's disaster.

Jack was conscious when they arrived, and Frenchy whipped out a brandy

flask and put it in Billjim's hand, saying:

"Give him a dose every now and again while we mend matters. Sit down

there facing him. That's right. Now, chaps!"

With a will the great piece of granite was moved from off the crushed

and bleeding limb. With deft fingers Frenchy had the trouser leg ripped

up above the knee, and then appeared a horribly crushed, shattered

thigh. Frenchy shook his head dolefully. "Any one got a small penknife?

Ivory or smooth-handled one for preference," he demanded.

"You're not going to cut him?" queried Billjim, without turning her

head.

"No, no," said Frenchy; "I want it to put against the vein and stop this

bleeding. That'll do nicely," as Travers handed him a knife. "Sit

tight, Jack, I must hurt you now."

"Go ahead," said Jack uneasily; "but don't be longer than you can help,"

and he caught hold of Billjim's hand and remained like that, quiet and

sensible, while Frenchy put a ligature round the injured limb and

bandaged it up as well as was possible.

"Now, mates," he said, as he finished, "this is a case for Clagton and

the doctor at once. No good one going in and fetching the doctor out,

it's waste of time, and then he mightn't be able to do anything. So we

must pack him on that stretcher and carry him in. Everybody willing?"

Aye, of course they were, though they knew they had fifteen miles to

carry a heavy man over gullies and rocks and through scrub and forest.

So Jack was carefully placed on the stretcher.

"Now you had better get home, Billjim, and tell them what has happened,"

said Frenchy.

"No, no, I won't," said Billjim; "I'm going with you;" and go she did,

of course, holding Jack's hand all the way, and administering small

doses of brandy whenever she was ordered. "La Vivandiere," as Frenchy

remarked, sotto voce, "but with a heart! Grand Dieu, with what a heart!"

It was a great sight to see that gallant little band carrying twelve

stone of helpless humanity in the moonlight.

Through scrub, over rocks and gullies, and through weird white gum

forest, and no sound but the laboured breathing of the bearers. There

were twelve of them, and they carried four and four about, those fifteen

miles.

Never a groan out of the poor fellow up aloft there, though he must have

suffered agonies when any one stumbled, which was bound to occur pretty

often in that dim light.

Slowly but surely they covered the distance, and just as day began to

dawn they reached the doctor's house at Clagton.

In a very little time Jack was lying on a couch in the surgery.

After some questions the doctor said:

"Too weak. Can't do anything just now."

"It's a case, I suppose?" asked Frenchy.

"Yes," said the doctor; "amputation, of course, and I have no one here

to help me. Stay, though! Who bandaged him?"

"I did," answered Frenchy; "I learnt that in hospitals, you know."

"Oh, well," said the doctor, quite relieved, "you'll do to help me. Go

and get a little sleep, and come this afternoon."

"Right you are," said Frenchy. "Come on, Billjim. Can't do any good here

just now. I'll take you to Mother Slater's."

Billjim gave one look at Jack, who nodded and smiled, and then went away

with Frenchy.

For three weeks after the operation Jack L'Estrange lay hovering on the

brink of the great chasm. Then he began to mend and get well rapidly.

Billjim was in constant attendance from the day she was allowed to see

him, and the doctor said, in fact, that but for her care and attention

there would probably have been no more Jack.

Great was the rejoicing at the Nest when Jack reappeared, and the

rejoicing turned to enthusiasm when it was discovered that there was a

mutual understanding come to between Billjim and the crippled miner.

Micky the Rat prophesied great things, but said:

"Faix, 'tis a distressful thing entirely to see a fine gurrl like that

wid a husband an' he wed on wan leg. 'Twas mesilf Billjim should ha'

tuk, no less."

But we all knew Micky the Rat, you see.

The wedding-day will never be forgotten by those who were on the Newanga

at the time.

The event came off at Clagton, and everybody was there. No invitations

were issued. None were needed. The town came, and the miners from far

and near, _en masse_.

Those who couldn't get a seat squatted in true bush fashion with their

wide-brimmed hats in their hands, and listened attentively to the

service; a lot of them never having entered a church door in their lives

before.

At the feast, before the newly married couple took their departure,

everybody was made welcome. It was a great time.

Old Dick got up to make a speech, and failed ignominiously. He looked at

Billjim for inspiration. She was just the identical person he shouldn't

have looked at, for thoughts of the Nest without Billjim again rose

before him, and those thoughts settled him, so he sat down again without

uttering a word.

Jack said something, almost inaudible, about seeking a fortune and

finding one, which was prettily put, and Frenchy as best man was heard

to mutter something about "Beautiful ... loss to camp ... happiness ...

wooden leg," and the speech making was over.

At the send off much rice flew about, and as the buggy drove off, an old

dilapidated iron-shod miner's boot was found dangling on the rear axle

of that conveyance.

That was Micky the Rat's parting shot at Jack for carrying Billjim away.

Clagton was a veritable London for that night only. You couldn't throw a

stone without hitting some one, and as a rule an artillery battery could

have practised for hours in the main street without hitting any one or

anything, barring perhaps a stray dog.

Things calmed down at last, however, and when the newly married returned

and, adding to the Nest, lived there with the old couple, every one was

satisfied. "Billjim" remained "Billjim" to all of us, and when a

stranger expresses surprise at that, Billjim simply says, "Ah! but you

see we are all mates here, aren't we, Jack?"

IN THE WORLD OF FAERY.

THE LEGENDS OF LANGAFFER.

BY MADAME ARMAND CAUMONT.

I.

THE TINY FOLK OF LANGAFFER.

Langaffer was but a village in those days, with a brook running through

it, a bridge, a market-place, a score of houses, and a church.

It may have become a city since, and may have changed its name. We

cannot tell. All we know is, that the curious things we are about to

relate took place a long time ago, before there was any mention of

railroads or gaslamps, or any of the modern inventions people have

nowadays.

There was one cottage quite in the middle of the village, much smaller,

cleaner, and neater than its neighbours. The little couple who lived in

it were known over the country, far and wide, as "Wattie and Mattie, the

tiny folk of Langaffer."

These two had gone and got married, if you please, when they were quite

young, without asking anybody's advice or permission. Whereupon their

four parents and their eight grandparents sternly disowned them; and the

Fairy of the land, highly displeased, declared the two should remain

tiny, as a punishment for their folly.

Yet they loved one another very tenderly, Wattie and Mattie; and, as the

years rolled by, and never a harsh word was heard between them, and

peace and unity reigned in their diminutive household--which could not

always have been said of their parents' and grandparents'

firesides--why, then the neighbours began to remark that they were a

good little couple; and the Fairy of the land declared that if they

could but distinguish themselves in some way, or perform some great

action, they might be allowed to grow up after all.

"But how could we ever do a great deed?" said Wattie to Mattie,

laughing. "Look at the size of us! I defy any man in the village, with

an arm only the length of mine, to do more than I! Of course I can't

measure myself with the neighbours. To handle Farmer Fairweather's

pitchfork would break my back, and to hook a great perch, like Miller

Mealy, in the mill-race, might be the capsizing of me. Still, what does

that matter? I can catch little sprats for my little wife's dinner; I

can dig in our patch of garden, and mend our tiny roof, so that we live

as cosily and as merrily as the best of them."

"To be sure, Wattie dear!" said Mattie. "And what would become of poor

me supposing thou wert any bigger? As it is, I can bake the little

loaves thou lovest to eat, and I can spin and knit enough for us both.

But, oh, dear! wert thou the size of Farmer Fairweather or Miller Mealy,

my heart would break."

In truth the little couple had made many attempts at pushing their

fortune in the village; and had failed, because it was no easy problem

to find a trade to suit poor Wattie. A friendly cobbler had taught him

how to make boots and shoes, new soling and mending; and he once had the

courage to suspend over his door the sign of a shoemaker's shop. Then

the good wives of Langaffer did really give him orders for tiny slippers

for their little ones to toddle about in. But, alas! ere the work was

completed and sent home, the little feet had got time to trot about a

good deal, and had far outgrown the brand-new shoes; and poor Wattie

acquired the character of a tardy tradesman. "So shoemaking won't do,"

he had said to Mattie. "If only the other folk would remain as little as

we are!"

In spite of this, Wattie and Mattie not only continued to be liked by

their neighbours, but in time grew to be highly respected by all who

knew them. Wattie could talk a great deal, and could give a reason for

everything; and his dwarf figure might be seen of an evening sitting on

the edge of the bridge wall, surrounded by a group of village worthies,

whilst his shrill little voice rose high above theirs, discussing the

affairs of Langaffer. And little Mattie was the very echo of little

Wattie. What _he_ said _she_ repeated on his authority in many a

half-hour's gossip with the good wives by the village well.

Now it happened that one day the homely community of Langaffer was

startled by sudden and alarming tidings. A traveller, hastening on foot

through the village, asked the first person he met, "What news of the

war?"

"What war?" returned the simple peasant in some surprise.

"Why, have you really heard nothing of the great armies marching about

all over the country, attacking, besieging and fighting in pitched

battles--the king and all his knights and soldiers against the enemies

of the country--ah, and it is not over yet! But I wonder to find all so

tranquil here in the midst of such troublous times!" And then the

stranger passed on; and his words fell on the peaceful hamlet like a

stone thrown into the bosom of a tranquil lake.

At once there was a general commotion and excitement among the village

folk. "Could the news be true? How dreadful if the enemy were indeed to

come and burn down their homesteads, and ravage their crops, and kill

them every one with their swords!"

That night the gossip lasted a long time on Langaffer Bridge. Wattie's

friends, the miller and the grocer, the tailor and the shoemaker, and

big Farmer Fairweather spoke highly of the king and his faithful

knights, and clenched their fists, and raised their voices to an angry

pitch at the mention of the enemy's name. And little Wattie behaved like

the rest of them, strutted about, and doubled up his tiny hands, and

proclaimed what he should do if Langaffer were attacked--and "if he were

only a little bigger!" Whereupon the neighbours laughed and held their

sides, and cried aloud, "Well done, Wattie!"

But the following evening brought more serious tidings. Shortly before

nightfall a rider, mounted on a sweltering steed, arrived at the village

inn, all out of breath, to announce that the army was advancing, and

that the General of the Forces called upon every householder in

Langaffer to furnish food and lodging for the soldiers.

"What! _Soldiers_ quartered on us!" cried the good people of Langaffer.

"Who ever heard the like?"

"They shall not come to _my_ house!" exclaimed Farmer Fairweather

resolutely.

"Oh, neighbour Fairweather!" shouted half a dozen voices, "and thou hast

such barns and lofts, and such very fine stables, and cowsheds, thou art

the very one who canst easily harbour the soldiers."

"As for _me_," cried the miller, "I have barely room for my meal-sacks!"

"Oh, plenty of room!" screamed the others, "and flour to make bread for

the troopers, and bran for the horses!"

"But it falls very hard on poor people like us!" cried the weaver, the

tinker, the cobbler and tailor; upon which little Wattie raised his

voice and began, "Shame on ye, good neighbours! Do ye grudge hospitality

to the warriors who go forth to shed their blood in our defence? Every

man, who has strength of body and limb, ought to feel it an honour to

afford food and shelter to the army of the land!"

"_Thy_ advice is cheap, Wattie!" cried several voices sarcastically,

"thou and thy tiny wife escape all this trouble finely. For the general

would as soon dream of quartering a soldier on dwarfs as on the sparrows

that live on the housetops!"

"And what if we are small," retorted Wattie, waxing scarlet, "we have

never shirked from our duty yet, and never intend to do so."

This boast of the little man's had the effect of silencing some of the

most dissatisfied; and then the people of Langaffer dispersed for the

night, every head being full of the morrow's preparations.

"Eh, Wattie dear," said Mattie to her husband, when the two were

retiring to sleep in their cosy little house, "we may bless ourselves

this night that we are not reckoned amongst the big people, and that our

cottage is so small no full-grown stranger would try to enter it."

"But we must do something, Mattie dear," said Wattie. "You can watch the

women washing and cooking all day to-morrow, whilst I encourage the men

in the market-place and on the bridge. These are great times, Mattie!"

"Indeed they are, Wattie dear." And so saying, the little couple fell

fast asleep.

The following morning Langaffer village presented a lively picture of

bustle and excitement. Soldiers in gaudy uniforms, and with gay-coloured

banners waving in the breeze, marched in to the sound of trumpet and

drum. How their spears and helmets glittered in the sunshine, and what a

neighing and prancing their steeds made in the little market-square! The

men and women turned out to receive them, the children clapped their

hands with delight, and the village geese cackled loudly to add to the

stir.

Wattie was there looking on, with his hands in his pockets. But nobody

heeded him now. They were all too busy, running here, running there,

hastening to and fro, carrying long-swords and shields, holding horses'

heads, stamping, tramping, scolding and jesting. Little Wattie was more

than once told to stand aside, and more than once got pushed about and

mixed up with the throng of idle children, whose juvenile curiosity kept

them spell-bound, stationed near the village inn.

Wattie began to feel lonely in the midst of the commotion. A humiliating

sense of his own weakness and uselessness crept over him; and the poor

little dwarf turned away from it all, and wandered out of the village,

far away through the meadows, and into a lonely wood.

On and on he went, unconscious of the distance, till night closed in,

when, heartsick and weary, he flung his little body down at the foot of

a majestic oak, and covered his face with his hands.

He had not lain long when he was startled by a sound close at hand; a

sigh, much deeper than his own, and a half-suppressed moan--what could

it be?

In an instant Wattie was on his feet, peering to right and left, trying

to discover whence those signs of distress proceeded.

The moon had just risen, and by her pale light he fancied he saw

something glitter among the dried leaves of the forest. Cautiously

little Wattie crept closer; and there, to his astonishment, lay extended

the form of a knight in armour. He rested on his elbow, and his head was

supported by his arm, and his face, which was uncovered, wore an

expression of sadness and anxiety. He gazed with an air of calm dignity

rather than surprise on the dwarf, when the latter, after walking once

or twice round him, cried out, "Noble knight, noble knight, pray what is

your grief, and can I do aught to relieve it? Say, wherefore these

groans and sighs?"

"Foes and traitors, sorrow and shame!" returned the warrior. "But tell

me, young man, canst thou show me the road to Langaffer?"

"That I can, noble sir," answered Wattie, impressed by the stranger's

tone. "Do I not dwell in Langaffer myself!"

"Then perhaps, young man, thou knowest the Castle of Ravenspur?"

"The ruined tower of Count Colin of Ravenspur!" cried Wattie, "why, that

is close to Langaffer. Our village folk call it 'the fortress' still,

although wild and dismantled since the time it was forsaken by----"

"Name not Count Colin to me!" cried the knight, impatiently. "The base

traitor that left his own land to join hands with the enemy! His sable

plume shall ne'er again wave in his own castle-yard!... But come,

hasten, young man, and guide me straight to Ravenspur. Our men, you say,

are encamped at Langaffer?"

"That they are," returned Wattie; "well-nigh every house is filled with

them. They arrived in high spirits this morning; and doubtless, by this

time, are sleeping as heavily as they were carousing an hour ago."

"All the better," cried the knight, "for it will be a different sort of

sleep some of them may have ere the morrow's setting sun glints through

the stems of these forest trees! And now, let us hasten to Ravenspur."

So saying, he drew himself up to his full height, lifted his sword from

the ground and hung it on his side, and strode away with Wattie, looking

all the while like a great giant in company of a puny dwarf.

As they emerged from the forest Wattie pointed with his finger across

the plain to the village of Langaffer, and then to a hill overhanging

it, crowned by a fortress which showed in the distance its chiselled

outlines against the evening sky. An hour's marching across the country

brought them close to the dismantled castle. The moonbeams depicted

every grey stone overgrown with moss and ivy, and the rank weeds choking

the apertures which once had been windows.

"An abode for the bat and the owl," remarked Wattie, "but, brave sir,

you cannot pass the night here. Pray--pray come to my tiny house in the

village, and rest there till the morning dawns."

"I accept thy hospitality, young man," said the warrior, "but first thou

canst render me a service. Thou art little and light. Canst clamber up

to yonder stone where the raven sits, and tell me what thou beholdest

far away to the west?" Whereupon Wattie, who was agile enough, and

anxious to help the stranger, began to climb up, stone by stone, the

outer wall of the ruined fortress. A larger man might have felt giddy

and insecure; but he, with his tiny figure, sprang from ledge to ledge

so swiftly, holding firmly by the tufts of grass and the trailing ivy,

that ere he had time to think of danger, he had reached the spot where,

a moment before, a grim-looking raven had been keeping solemn custody.

Here the stone moved, and Wattie fancied he heard something rattle as he

set his foot upon it. The raven had now perched herself on a yet higher

eminence, on a piece of the old coping-stone of the castle parapet; and

she flapped her great ugly wings, and cawed and croaked, as if

displeased at this intrusion on her solitude. Wattie followed the

ill-omened bird, and drove her away from her vantage-ground, where he

himself now found a better footing from which to make his observations.

"To the west," he cried, "lights like camp-fires, all in a row far

against the horizon!"

This was all he had to describe; and it seemed enough to satisfy the

armed stranger.

"And now, young man," he said, when Wattie had, after a perilous

descent, gained the castle-yard once more, "I shall be thy guest for the

night."

A thrill of pride and pleasure stole through Wattie's breast as he

thought of the honour of receiving the tall warrior. But the next

instant his heart was filled with anxiety as he remembered the tiny

dimensions of his home, Mattie and himself.

All these hours his little wife had passed in sore perplexity because of

his absence. At the accustomed time for supper she had spread the

snow-white napkin on the stool that served them for a table. She had

piled up a saucerful of beef and lentils for Wattie, and filled him an

egg-cupful of home-brewed ale to the brim. And yet he never came!

What could ever have happened? A tiny little person like Wattie might

have been trampled to death in the crowd of great soldiers that now

filled Langaffer! A horse's kick at the village inn might have killed

him! He might have been pushed into the stream and been drowned. Oh, the

horrible fancies that vaguely hovered round poor Mattie's fireside! No

wonder the little woman sat there with her face pale as ashes, her teeth

chattering, and her tiny hands clasped tightly together.

And thus Wattie found her when he returned at last, bringing the

stranger knight along with him. But Mattie was so overjoyed to see her

Wattie safe home, and held her arms so tightly round his neck, that he

could scarcely get his story told.

Little indeed did the good people of Langaffer, that night, asleep in

their beds, dream of the great doings under the modest roof of Wattie

and Mattie; all the furniture they possessed drawn out and joined

together, and covered with the whole household stock of mattresses,

quilts and blankets, to form a couch for their guest's repose.

The knight had eaten all Mattie's store of newly-baked bread, and now

only begged for a few hours' rest, and a little more water to quench his

thirst when he should waken. As he took off his helmet with its great

white plume, and handed it to Wattie, the latter staggered under its

weight, and Mattie cried out, "Oh, Wattie, how beautiful, how noble it

must be to ride o'er hill and dale in such a gallant armour!"

Then thrice to the Fairy Well in the meadow beyond the bridge of

Langaffer must Wattie and Mattie run to fetch water, the best in the

land, clear as crystal, and cold as ice; for it required fully three

times what they could carry to fill the great stone pitcher for the

sleeping warrior.

And the third time the two came to the spring, behold, the water bubbled

and flashed with the colours of the rainbow, and by the light of the

moon they caught a glimpse of something bright reflected on its surface.

They glanced round, and there a lovely, radiant being sat by, with a

tiny phial in her hand.

"Hold here, little people!" she cried, "let me drop some cordial into

the pitcher."

"Nay, nay!" screamed Mattie.

"Nay!" cried Wattie sternly, "the drink must be as pure as crystal."

"For your noble warrior," added the fairy rising; "but the beverage will

taste the sweeter with the drops that I put into it." And so saying, she

stretched forth her hand, and shook the contents of her tiny flask into

the pitcher; and her gay laugh rang merrily and scornfully through the

midnight air.

Wattie and Mattie, half-frightened, hastened homewards; and lo, when

crossing the bridge, an old hag overtook them, and, as she hurried past,

she uttered a spiteful laugh.

"There is something strange in the air to-night," said Mattie. "See that

weird old woman, and hark, Wattie, how Oscar, the miller's dog, barks at

the moon."

"Mattie," cried Wattie resolutely, "let us empty our pitcher into the

mill-race, and go back once again, and draw afresh! 'Tis safer."

So the tiny couple, weary and worn out as they were, trudged all the way

to the Fairy Well once more to "make sure" that the stranger knight

should come to no harm through their fault.

And this time the water flowed clear and cold, but with no varied tints

flashing through it. Only Wattie seemed to hear the stream rushing over

the pebbles like a soft, lisping voice. "Hush! listen! what does it

say?"

"To me," cried Mattie, "it whispers, 'Silver sword of Ravenspur.' But

that has no sense, Wattie dear. Come, let us go!"

"And to me the same!" cried Wattie, "'Silver sword of Ravenspur.' That

means something."

It was now early dawn as the two passed over the bridge and by the

miller's house, and they could see the fish floating _dead_ on the

surface of the mill-race, and poor Oscar the dog lying stretched on the

bank, with his tongue hanging out stiff and cold. And silently wondering

at all these strange things the little couple finished their task.

When the hour of noon arrived, the din of battle raged wild and fierce

round the village of Langaffer. The enemies of the land had arrived from

the west with false Colin at their head, and were met by the soldiers in

the plain, below the Castle of Ravenspur. With a loud war-cry on either

side foe rushed upon foe, and the fight began. Horsemen reeled over and

tumbled from their chargers, blood flowed freely on every side, shrieks

rent the air; but the strength of the combatants appeared equal. At last

Count Colin and his men pressed closer on the royal army, and forced

them back by degrees towards Langaffer.

It seemed now that the enemy's troops were gaining; and groans of

despair broke forth from the villagers and countryfolk who watched with

throbbing hearts the issue of the day.

At this moment the knight who had been little Wattie's guest dashed

forward, mounted on a snow-white charger, his armour of polished steel

glistening, and his fair plume waving in the sunshine.

"Back with the faint-hearted, on with the brave, and down with the

traitor!" he cried, and rode to the front rank himself.

His word and action wrought like an enchantment on the soldiers. They

rallied round the white-plumed stranger, who soon was face to face with

false Colin. And then the hostile bands, with their rebel commander,

were in turn driven back, and back, and back across the plain, and right

under the beetling towers of the fortress of Ravenspur.

Now Wattie was standing near the ruin, and saw the combat, and heard the

sounds of the warriors' voices reverberating from the bend of the hill.

How his heart bounded at the brave knight's battle-cry: "_Back with the

faint-hearted, on with the brave, and down with the traitor!_" And then

indeed the blood seemed to stand still in his veins when he heard false

Colin exclaim, "Oh, had I the silver sword of Ravenspur!"

Ah! Wattie remembered the raven, and the one loose stone in the castle

wall.

In another instant his tiny figure was grappling with the trailing ivy

on the outer fencework of the fortress.

And now he is seen by false Colin, and now the archers bend their bows,

and the arrows fly past him on every side. But Wattie has hurled down a

stone into the old courtyard, and, from behind it, has drawn forth a

silver-hilted brand.

"He is so small that our arrows all miss him!" cry the archers. "Nay,"

cries false Colin, "but he bears the enchanted weapon of Ravenspur! Take

it from him, my men, and fetch it to me."

"Count Colin shall have the _point_ of the sword," cries Wattie, "but

the silver handle is for the white-plumed knight!" and, running round

the ledge of the castle wall to the highest turret, he flings the

shining weapon down amongst the men of Langaffer.

And now there was a fresh charge made on the enemy, and the "unknown

warrior," armed with the newly-found talisman, stood face to face, hand

to hand, with the traitor.

... _Count Colin fell_, pierced through his armour of mail by the sword

that once had been his! The enemy fled, and the victory was won.

Then the stranger knight undid his visor, and took off his armour; and,

as his golden locks floated down his shoulders, the soldiers cried out,

"'Tis the King! 'tis the King!"

Wattie was called forth by the King of all the Land, and was bidden to

take the knightly helmet with its waving plume, and the shield, and the

silver sword, and to wear them. The men of Langaffer laughed aloud; but

Wattie did as he was commanded, and put on the knightly armour and

weapons.

And, behold at that moment he grew up into a great, strong warrior,

worthy to wield them! He was knighted then and there, "Sir Walter of

Ravenspur," and presented with the castle on the hill, which the king's

own army repaired ere they quitted Langaffer.

And then the King of all the Land sent a fair white robe, the size of

the Queen's ladies'; and when little Mattie put this on, she grew up

tall and stately to fit it. And, for many and many a year to come, she

was known as the "Good Dame Martha, the faithful lady of Sir Walter of

Ravenspur."

II.

THE KINGFISHER.

Martin was a gardener, and lived in a cottage in the midst of a hamlet

near Langaffer. All the country for miles round belonged to the old king

and queen; and their beautiful palace was hard by the village, in a

stately grove of elms and beech trees. Before the windows extended a

lovely garden, which was kept in order by Martin. Here he toiled every

day from morning-dawn till evening-dusk; and, in his own churlish

manner, he had come to love the flowers that cost him so much labour.

Like many another honest gardener, however, Martin found it very hard

that he could not have his own way in this world, even as concerned his

plants. For instance, the old monarch would come out every morning

after breakfast in his dressing-gown and slippers, and would admire the

bloom; but the very flowers he appeared to prize most were those that

cost Martin least trouble, and which the gardener in his heart despised

as cheap and vulgar.

Then the queen and the young ladies were wont to appear on the terrace

before dinner, with their little lapdogs, and call out for posies. They

must have the finest tea-roses and moss-roses that were only in bud.

Martin might grumble about to-morrow's "poor show," and point to some

rare full-blown beauties--but no, they just desired those which were not

yet opened.

Moreover, there grew here and there in the garden a plant or shrub,

which, Martin considered, would have been better removed; especially one

large lauristinus, which, he declared, "destroyed all symmetry," and

"hindered the flowers about it from enjoying the sunshine."

But the old king obstinately opposed changes of this sort, and strictly

forbade his gardener, on any pretext whatever, to remove the

lauristinus; as it was well known at the court that for generations a

spell was connected with this special shrub, and that therefore the less

it was meddled with the better.

All this interference tended to sour poor Martin's temper; but he

himself declared it was nothing compared to the aggravating behaviour of

Prince Primus, commonly called "Lord Lackaday," the king's eldest son.

This young nobleman, who was renowned far and wide for his indolent

habits, sauntered forth every day with a little boy carrying his

fishing-tackle, away through the lovely gardens, without once turning

his head to behold the brilliant parterres of "calceolarias,

pelargoniums, petunias and begonias," or to inhale the sweet-scented

heliotropes,--away through the park, and on to the river; for my Lord

Lackaday's sole pastime was angling.

"Humph! there he goes with his tackle," Martin would murmur, turning

from tying up his carnations to stare after him. "If old Martin, now,

were to spend _his_ days lying stretched _his_ full length on the

grass, with a rod dangling in the water before him, what would the world

come to? And where would _you_ be, my beauties?" he added, continuing

his occupation. "Hanging your lovely heads, my darlings!" And so he

grumbled and mumbled in an undertone to himself the whole livelong day,

until he went home to his supper at night; when his good wife, Ursula,

would endeavour to cheer him with her hearty welcome.

One evening Martin went with his clay pipe and his pewter ale-pot in his

hand to the village inn, to divert himself listening to the general

gossip which was carried on there between the host and the little group

of customers--weavers, tinkers, tailors, blacksmiths and labourers.

To-night they talked of the rich old king and queen, and Lord Lackaday,

and all the gay princesses, knights and ladies, who lived at the court,

and rode by in such splendid carriages, in such gorgeous attire.

"They eat out of golden dishes," said the tailor, "and the very nails in

their boots are silver!"

Martin knew as much about the court as any present; but he was in one of

his silent humours this evening.

"The princess gave a hundred crowns," cried the blacksmith, "for a

one-eyed lapdog, and My Lord Lackaday--Prince Primus, I mean--two

hundred for a certain white fly for his angling-rod----"

"And he never gave _me_ a hundred _groats_," blurted out Martin, who

could not stand any reference to the prince in question.

Thereupon the conversation took another turn; wages were discussed, the

weaver and the ploughman "compared notes"; and, as for Martin, it was

the unanimous opinion of the whole company that he, at least, ought to

strike--to insist on an increase of pay, or refuse to labour any more as

the king's own gardener.

Accordingly, the next morning Martin watched and waited till his royal

master came sidling along the smooth gravel walk in his embroidered

slippers, with his dressing-gown floating about him, sniffing with

good-humoured satisfaction the sweet fragrance of the standard roses,

that formed a phalanx on either side.

"I've got to tell your Majesty," began Martin abruptly, "that, unless

your Majesty raises my salary, I can't work any more in your Majesty's

garden."

Whereupon the old king started back all astonished; then laughed so

heartily that he brought on a fit of coughing.

"Your Majesty may be highly amused," grumbled Martin, "but I've said my

say, and I mean to stick to it!"

"But suppose your salary _ain't_ raised," began the king, trying his

best to look serious, "what then?"

"Then I'll go!" cried Martin; and, so saying, he flung his spade with

such force into the soil, that it stood upright.

"Well, my man, we'll give you a week to come to your senses," replied

the monarch, as, gathering up his skirts, he shuffled away down the

garden walk.

When Martin arrived home he found a great fuss going on in his little

cottage. All the good wives of the hamlet were gathered about the

door-porch; and, when he entered, lo, and behold, Dame Ursula held in

her arms the dearest little beauty of a baby-boy!

She wept for joy, as she saw how pleased her goodman was with his new

little son; but when he related to her all that had passed between

himself and his master, the old king, she clasped her hands together,

and began to weep and wail for sorrow, "because," as she said, "it was a

very bad time to be 'out of work,' and an evil omen for the child.

However, we'll have a real nice christening, Martin dear, and invite all

the _good fairies_. And next week you will go on with your gardening

again, you know, just as if nothing had happened."

So they had as grand a christening as people in their circumstances

could afford. The baby was called Lionel, "which," remarked some of the

neighbours, "was quite too fine a name for a common gardener's son."

Only one bright little, gay little fairy could be found who had time to

come to the christening. But she was a good-natured little thing, that

somehow always found exactly time to render a great many kindly

services. She willingly became Lionel's godmother, and promised to help

him through life as far as she could. "However," added the little lady,

with a sigh, "there's many a wicked fairy in the land may try to throw a

shadow across his path."

Now the day after the christening, and after the fairy's departure, the

troubles in little Lionel's home appeared to set in. Martin's leather

money-bag hung empty, and there was very little bread in the house for

his wife to eat; and this Saturday night no wages were coming due. Oh,

how he yearned for Monday morning, that he might go at his digging

again; and how anxiously he hoped that all might continue as before!

Slowly the week dragged out, the lagging hours weighing like chains on

the heart of the honest yeoman, who was not accustomed to idleness.

At last the Monday morning dawned, with rustling of leaves, and

twittering of birds; and Martin flung his clothes on, and hastened forth

to the royal garden.

Ah, me! the place looked neglected since only last week. The roses and

carnations hung their heads for want of a drop of water, and the leaves

of the fuchsias had mostly turned white. Weeds were staring out boldly

right and left; and the box-borders, that had ever been so trim and

neat, just appeared as if all the cats and dogs in the country-side had

gathered in on purpose to tear them to pieces.

Martin sped to the toolhouse for his watering-can, rake and hoe; but he

was somewhat dismayed indeed to find his implements broken in pieces,

and lying scattered about.

What could it mean?

He took a few strides towards the "lime walk," and gazed up at the

castle windows. The lattices were closed, and all was silent. But then,

of course, the old king and queen and My Lord Lackaday, and all the

princesses would be sleeping in their beds at this early hour of the

morning. Martin must wait until some human creature appeared to tell him

how the garden tools came to be broken and scattered.

In the meantime he trudged back to his own domain among the flowers, and

passed the dreary moments picking off the withered leaves. By-and-by a

light footstep was audible, and "Impudent Jack the jockey" arrived

whistling, with a heavy-jowled bull-dog at his heels, and stamped right

across the garden parterres, switching off the carnation-tops with his

cutty-whip.

"Holloa there, man! Mind what you're about!" cried Martin foaming with

wrath. "I wish His Majesty the old king saw you."

"The old king!" cried Jack, standing still, and gazing at Martin with

some amazement. "Why, Martin, the old king is _dead_ a week to-morrow,

and My Lord Lackaday is master now. And, as for the garden, my man, you

may set your mind at rest about that, for his new Royal Majesty has

given orders that the whole concern is to be turned into a lake for His

Majesty to fish in. Now!" And, so saying, _impudent_ Jack that he was,

continued his way, whistling louder, and switching off more carnation

tops than before.

Poor Martin was utterly dazed. Could it be true, or was it only a

cunning invention of Impudent Jack the jockey's?

Alas, the prolonged stillness that reigned in the park, and the forlorn

aspect of the castle windows, made his heart sink like lead within him.

Suddenly a postern door banged, and then a slow, dawdling step was heard

in the distance, and Martin perceived, approaching the "lime walk," My

Lord Lackaday, with his fishing-rod and tackle. There were two or three

young pages with him bearing baskets and nets; and he overheard one of

them say, "By-and-by your Majesty shall not have so far to go, once the

new pond here is finished."

This was more than Martin could endure. He dashed after the royal

fisherman, and screamed forth, "Can it be true that the flower gardens

are to be made a pond of? And how is your father's gardener then to get

his living?"

"Don't bother us," drawled out the new king; "we don't like flowers, nor

do we care whether you get a living or not!"

The blood rushed to Martin's head, and a singing sound filled his ears.

"A pond!" he cried. "A common fishpond! And how am I to earn my living

now? And what is to become of my wife and little Lionel?"

In his anger and despair, Martin sprang blindly forward, and kicked the

standard roses, and wrung the necks of the beautiful purple iris that

bloomed in the shade of some laurel bushes. His eye caught the

spellbound lauristinus, and, forgetting his late good master's commands,

he fell on it furiously with both hands, and tore, and wrenched it from

the earth.

Then suddenly, as the roots and fibres of the ill-omened plant with a

crackling noise were released from the soil, a wonderful being, which

had been buried underneath it--a wicked fairy with an evil eye--uncoiled

herself, and rose up straight and tall before him. She gave a malicious

smile, and simpered out flattering words to the half-bewildered

labourer.

"A thousand thanks, O noble knight, for relieving a spell-bound lady!

Pray let me know, is there aught that I can do to indicate my

gratitude?"

"Tell me how I can earn my daily bread?" stammered forth poor Martin.

"Daily bread!" cried the fairy, tossing her head contemptuously. "I can

tell thee, gallant sir, where to find gold, ay, more real yellow gold

than the king and all his court ever dreamed of! I have not been pent up

under that lauristinus all these years for nothing! I know a secret or

two."

Martin's eyes grew dilated, and his breath came and went, and he seized

the fairy by the wrist. "Answer me," he gasped out hoarsely, "where's

all that gold to be got? No palavering, or I'll bury you up again, and

plant that same lauristinus-bush on your head!"

The fairy rolled her evil eye, and gave a forced laugh. "At the back of

yonder mountain!" she cried, pointing with her thin, long hand to a hill

whose summit overlooked the park. "The way thou must take is through the

forest, till thou comest to the charcoal-burners' huts. Then follow a

crooked path leading to the left, round to the back of the hill. Thou

wilt find an opening in the earth. _The gold is there!_"

Martin scarcely waited for the last words. He loosened his grasp of the

fairy's wrist, and hastened full speed home to his wife and child.

"To a hole at the back of the mountain to look for gold!" Poor Dame

Ursula was sorely puzzled when her good-man arrived all excited, and

bade her make a bundle of what clothes she possessed, bring the baby

Lionel, and follow him to push their fortune at the back of the

mountain.

Now at the back of the mountain there was a deep mine where many people,

men, women and children, were searching after, and finding, gold. Only

they were obliged to descend deep, deep into the bowels of the earth,

where all was dark, save for the pale flickering of little lanterns,

which they were allowed to carry down.

Poor Dame Ursula wept bitterly at the notion of taking her darling

little Lionel into such a dismal pit. But there was no help for it; down

they must go, and live like the rest at the bottom of the gloomy mine,

whilst Martin, with a pickaxe, wrought for gold.

... The days passed, and the weeks passed, and the months, and the

_years_! And little Lionel was growing up amidst the dross. His long

hair was filthy, and matted together, and his skin was always stained

with the clay. His parents could scarcely know whether he was a lovely

boy or not. It was so dark down there, that his mother could not show

his blue eyes to the neighbours; yet she ever kept him by her side, for

fear of losing him, and also because she dreaded he might learn bad ways

from the gold-diggers--to curse and swear like them, and tell lies, and

steal other people's treasures.

And poor Martin dug from year-end to year-end, in the weary hope of some

day lighting on a great heap of wealth.

The time dragged slowly on, and Lionel's father was getting old and

weak, and his pickaxe fell with feeble, quavering strokes into the

earth; and Lionel's poor mother was growing blind with constantly

peering after her son through the half-obscurity of their underground

abode.

Then one morning she missed him altogether, having mistaken for him

another youth, whom she followed and then found with bitter anguish to

be not her boy. Thus Lionel was alone; and he, too, searched for his

mother, and, in so doing, became completely lost in the mine.

On and on he wandered, through endless subterraneous corridors, until at

last he spied a feeble glimmer before him. He never remembered to have

been here before, or to have seen this light. It was the entrance to the

mine.

There was a large basket, with two old men standing in it; and they told

Lionel that they were about to be taken up into the daylight.

"Oh, let me go with you!" cried Lionel. "Take me also to the daylight,

if only for a little while!"

They hoisted him into the basket; and immediately several unseen hands

from above drew all three right up, out of the dark gold mine. The pale,

thin ray grew stronger, broader, brighter as they ascended; and, at the

mouth of the mine, a perfect flood of golden sunshine overwhelmed

Lionel, who now held his hands across his brow, and felt painfully

dazzled.

"Young man," said a voice beside him, in mournful accents, "this upper

air is not for thee. Go down again to the shady retreat to which thou

art accustomed."

It was an aged female that spoke; she sat on the ground all clad in a

sooty garment.

"Not for me!" cried Lionel, bursting into tears; "and why should it not

be for me as well as for others?"

But just at this instant a fairy-like thing in white glided past the

youth, and whispered, "Heed her not, she is an evil genius! Hie thee,

young man, for shelter to yonder wood; from its leafy shade thou canst

behold the lovely earth with its verdant meadows, rich foliage and

brilliant flowers, and the soft, fleecy clouds embracing one another in

the azure sky overhead. Never fear, it is all for thee; thine eyes were

meant to gaze on it."

Lionel ran, and his young heart bounded within him for joy. He felt like

some blind person who sees again for the first time.

All through those dismal years down in the mine his mother had told him

how lovely the sunshine was, and the soft green grass; and how pure and

sweet the country air; but he had little dreamed it could be so

delightful, so beautiful as this!

The forest stood before him with its thousands of singing-birds, and its

carpet of many-coloured leaves and wild flowers. He would enter in

there.

Suddenly a croaking sound from a branch overhead arrested his attention,

and Lionel saw a great magpie staring down at him with dark, piercing

eyes.

"Halt!" cried the magpie, "nor enter this wood upon the peril of thy

life! Here are lions and tigers, bears and wolves, that will rend thee

to pieces."

He was startled and troubled for a moment; but at once his eye caught

sight of a pretty little mocking-bird, that laughed like a human being,

and shook its tiny head at him.

"_She_ doesn't believe you, anyhow," said Lionel to the magpie. "Nor

will I." And he walked away right into the forest.

As he went he stopped to examine the feathery-looking ferns, and the

wondrous velvety moss that grew on the roots of the trees. By-and-by a

rushing noise was heard, which became louder as Lionel proceeded. Could

that be the wild beasts of which the magpie had warned him? He stood

still with fast-beating heart and listened.

But the thought of the fairy-like voice and the gay little mocking-bird

encouraged him, and he pressed forward to see what that rushing noise

could mean.

The next instant found young Lionel by the side of a majestic waterfall,

standing with parted lips and rounded eyes, gazing before him in a

bewilderment of admiration. The cascades leaped laughingly from rock to

rock, and were lost in a limpid pool; then flowed away as a gentle,

rippling brook.

"How lovely!" gasped Lionel; and he bent forward, and looked into the

placid surface of the water in the rocky basin. But what did he behold

there? A vision that appalled him, and caused him to start back

abashed--_himself_, all grimy, with his matted hair and besmeared face!

For he had still the dress of the gold mine clinging to him; and he wept

for shame to feel himself so ugly in a spot where all was beauty.

Lionel stood and gazed on the silver stream with his wondering eyes; he

observed the little birdies come down quite fearlessly to quench their

thirst, and lave their tiny bodies in the cooling drops. Then he, too,

trembling at his own temerity, bathed himself in the crystal pool, and

came forth fair and shining, with his sunny locks waving on his

shoulders.

And now he continued his path through the forest with a happy heart;

for, what if his garments _were_ old and mud-stained, he felt that he

himself was fresh and comely!

Young Lionel gathered a nosegay as he went, harebells and violets,

oxlips and anemones; thinking all the while of the tales his mother oft

had told him about his father's skill in flowers. And heartily he

laughed at the frolics of the cunning little squirrels he spied for the

first time among the branches over his head.

At last he heard the echo of many voices and the sounds of merry-making,

and paused, hesitating and timid. Whence came all this laughter and

these cries of mirth? Surely not from the voice of one being, a

sallow-looking female attired in gaudy garments, like a gipsy, who now

came along his path.

"Turn, noble sir, and come with me," she cried, "and I will tell thee

thy fortune!"

But Lionel liked not her artful eyes, so he only said, "What sounds are

those?"

"They are the inhabitants of the country," answered the female vaguely;

"but beware of them, young stranger, they will surely take thy life."

"But I must see them," cried Lionel, "their voices please my ears! They

seem to be very happy."

"Such happiness is not for thee, young man!" shrieked the fortune-teller

angrily. "Be warned, and return from whence thou camest; else these

country clowns, when they behold thy miserable attire, will stone thee

to death, as a thief or a highwayman."

Lionel was shocked; yet the leer of the gipsy's eye made him think of

the lying magpie. So he left her, and hastened on, and, behold! there

stood before him the village maypole, bedecked with roses and ribbons,

and a living garland of youths and fair maidens dancing round it.

They had a lovely little fairy-body in their midst, and were entreating

her to be their "May-Queen," but laughingly she broke away from them

all, and declared she had her duties elsewhere--other young folks in

another hamlet to render happy. She nodded in a friendly, familiar way

to Lionel, who waited, shyly looking on, and motioned to him with her

little wand to join the party round the May-pole.

Far from repulsing him with sneers and jests, or "stoning him to death,"

the young people were very kind to Lionel; and, taking his hand,

welcomed him into their chain of dancers.

And when the frolics were at an end, and each one satiated with

happiness and excitement, they brought him to their festal board, and

gave him to eat and drink.

Then the good old wives of the hamlet gathered round, and began to

question the stranger youth, inquiring his name and whence he came. When

they heard that he was called "Lionel," and his father "Martin," they

held up their hands with astonishment, and nodded their heads to one

another, and cried out, "Dame Ursula's son! Dame Ursula's babe, that was

christened Lionel, the day Lord Lackaday became king! Well to be sure!

And where is Dame Ursula now? And Martin the gardener? And where have

they hidden themselves all these long years?" cried the old wives of the

hamlet in a breath.

But Lionel wept bitterly, as he thought of his mother and father far

down in the bottom of the gold-mine; and at the same time he was

ashamed to tell the village people where they were.

"I must go," he cried, "and bring them here! I must be off to search for

them, away ... away ... at the back of the mountain."

Then the old wives insisted on his waiting and resting the night there;

for he had need of sleep, he was so tired after walking and bathing,

dancing and weeping. And they gave him a nice, spruce, dimity-curtained

bed to sleep in; and presented him with a beautiful suit of new garments

for the morrow; "for," they said, "they had been at his christening, and

it was easy to see that the good Dame Ursula, wherever she had been all

these years, had brought her boy up well."

Lionel was fatigued, and shut his eyes at once for the night; but, ere

slumber overtook him, he heard distinctly the old wives' gossip by his

bedside.

"What a shame it was," said they, "of My Lord Lackaday to turn away poor

Martin as he did, and then transform the magnificent palace garden into

a fishpond!"

"But he was punished for it," whispered another. "They say an 'evil

spell' hangs over his only child, the lovely princess--the 'Lady Lilias'

as she is called. They say some creature from below the cursed fishpond

is to marry her--some dreadful beast no doubt. And the king is in

terror, and spends his time fishing there day and night."

The words awakened a strange curiosity in Lionel's heart; they rang in

his ears, and mingled with his dreams the whole night through; and it

seemed to him as if he and his parents were, in some way, bound up with

the fate of this poor young princess and her unhappy father, the king.

The following morning he donned the brave new garments they had given

him, and went forth to look at the park and the palace he had so often

heard of, before starting back to the gold-mine.

He discovered the royal entrance without assistance. But what was his

surprise to see, crouched on the roadside near it, a being which looked

this time just what she was, a wicked fairy with an evil eye! She

uncoiled herself, and stood up, straight and tall, before him. She gave

a malicious smile, and simpered forth these words: "Beware, young man,

of entering in there! That is the royal demesne, and no stranger

intrudes unpunished. None so poor and so mean as thou art dares be seen

within those precincts."

"My parents have taught me that _to tell lies is mean_! And thou hast

told me enough!" cried Lionel, indignantly.

At his words the creature vanished from before him; and on the spot

where she had stood he saw an ugly bush of deadly nightshade.

Then he boldly entered the royal park, and walked in thoughtful silence

till the stone work of the ancient castle walls met his view. At one

side was a venerable shady lime walk, and Lionel perceived a maiden

slowly gliding down it, attired in white, with golden hair, much longer

than his own, and eyes of an azure blue.

"Are you the spellbound Lady Lilias?" asked Lionel. "And where is the

lake that was once a lovely garden?"

"Oh, I dare not go there," sighed the maiden; "not even to cull the

sweet white water-lilies I wish so much, because my father fears I may

meet some creature from below the water. Didst thou ever hear the like?

But I think I might go with thee," she added wistfully, taking Lionel's

hand. "No vile creature can harm me when thou art by my side!"

Her innocent, confiding words captivated Lionel's heart, and he

exclaimed, "I will protect you, Lady Lilias, from every danger."

Then she led him to the great artificial lake at the back of the royal

mansion; and there, sure enough, lay the king stretched out his full

length upon the bank, with his fishing-rod dangling in the water.

Near the margin of the lake grew lovely white water-lilies, and the Lady

Lilias stooped to gather them. But her father was all alarmed on

beholding her approach the spot which fate had connected with so much

danger for his child.

"My daughter, my Lilias!" he cried out, "when I have fished up the

creature from below the lake that waits to marry thee, I will kill it,

and then thou may'st wander as thou wilt. But oh, keep far from the

water's edge, my child!"

"Ah, here is a _Lion_ will guard thy _Lily_, father dear," returned the

girl laughing, and she presented young Lionel to the king.

But, at this instant, a violent tugging was perceptible at the end of

the monarch's angling-rod; and he rose in great excitement to draw in

his line, which this time seemed to have hooked some extraordinary

booty.

Lionel ran forward, and assisted the king to land it.

And what was the wondrous fish? A little tiny fairy-body all laughing

and shining like a mermaid.

"I have come," she began gaily, "from the bottom of the lake, but your

Majesty need not fear that fair Lady Lilias will fall in love with an

old fairy like me. Yet there stands one at her side, my godson, young

Lionel, old Martin the gardener's son, who has indeed come also from

beneath the lake; and deeper down than I. For you must know that below

your Majesty's feet, and below the royal palace and this park and pond,

there are workmen grovelling sordidly for gold, and the danger is, that

some fine morning both the palace and the hamlet may be undermined, and

fall into the pit that they are digging."

"Oh," cried the king greatly relieved, "then my Lilias shall marry young

Lionel! He is a goodly youth; and my heart shall be at rest about my

daughter. And now, good Fairy, that I fear no longer an ugly monster for

my child, I shall fish no more to-day, but inquire into these things,

that threaten the safety of my kingdom!"

Lady Lilias and "My Lord Lionel," as he was now called, were married at

once; for the good fairy declared, _a good thing could never be done too

soon_.

The marriage was a grand one, as became a royal princess of the great

house of Primus Lackaday; and immediately after the ceremony, by

Lionel's desire, the young pair drove in a glass-coach, drawn by eight

swift chargers, through the forest, Lilias bearing in her hands a large

posy of water-lilies--away, past the cascade, and on, to the opening of

the gold-mine, at the back of the mountain.

An order was sent down in the basket, by a special messenger, bidding

old Martin and Dame Ursula ascend to meet their Lionel and his noble

bride.

As it was, the poor old couple had been searching in anguish for their

son; and now, weary and heavy-hearted, they had arrived just at the foot

of the opening when the news came to them.

Then the sudden reaction, and the sight of the brand-new silk and velvet

garments Lionel sent down for them, almost killed them with joy. "'Tis

my _Lionel's voice_ I hear!" cried Dame Ursula as they were being drawn

up in the basket.

"Ah me, the odour of my flowers after twenty years!" sobbed out Martin,

the tears trickling down his furrowed cheeks at the recognition of his

favourites.

And so they were all happy again; and Lionel's fortune was made,

although his father found no heaps of gold.

As for the king, _in three days_ he was back to his fishing again, lying

on the bank of the great pond, as happy as ever he was in the old times

when he was only "My Lord Lackaday." He said the land was too much

trouble for him; Lilias and Lionel might rule it as they thought fit.

And so these two _really_ carried out all _he_ had promised to do.

The good little fairy-body rarely appeared in the country after Lionel's

wedding-day; for the people were all happy now, "and," as she declared,

"had no need of her."

And then it happened that one day at noontide, when the sun was shining

overhead with a dazzling heat, and all the air was warm and drowsy, the

king, who had been angling since early morning, without catching the

smallest minnow, and had fallen fast asleep, lost his balance, and

rolled down the sloping bank into the water, and disappeared. They

dredged the lake for his body in vain. No trace of him was to be

discovered, although they sent the most expert divers down to search.

But, strange to say, every evening from that time forward, just about

sunset, a little bird with plumage gay, called "_The Kingfisher_," might

be seen to haunt the margin of the lake, ready, with its pointed beak,

to hook up the tiny fishes, that glided in shoals at nightfall near the

surface of the water.

III.

CASPAR THE COBBLER, OF COBWEB CORNER.

In the centre of a certain old city in the Land of Langaffer stood a

king's castle, surrounded by a high turreted wall, with many little

gablets and long windows, and balconies adorned with flowers. A

courtyard full of soldiers was inside. Like the city, the castle was

picturesque, with its quaint architecture, its nooks and turns, its

solid masonry and stone-carving. The interior must have been beautiful

indeed; for the king, who had a very excellent taste, could scarcely be

induced to leave his royal home even for an hour, so much did he love

it. He was wont to inhale the fresh air every morning on the southern

parapet where the clematis trailed over the antique coping, and, in the

long summer twilight he would enjoy gazing at the east, where the

sinking sun had spread its golden hue over his dominions, from the tiny

top turret pointing to the woods and mountains that lay away beyond the

city.

Now, in close proximity to the castle were some of the darkest and

narrowest streets of the city. One of these was Cobweb Corner; and here,

in a small attic, dwelt a humpbacked, plain-visaged little man, who the

whole day long loved to think about the king. He was called "Caspar the

Cobbler, of Cobweb Corner."

The people all knew Caspar, but they did not know that Caspar's secret

ambition was to become some day cobbler to the king.

Caspar's father and mother had been poor folk, like himself; and when he

came into the world, a sickly, plain-featured babe, his mother sent for

the very last of the fairies in the land to be her child's godmother,

and to bequeath him some wonderful gift which might make up for his lack

of strength and beauty.

"What an ugly child," said the fairy; "yet somebody will love him, and

he may become beautiful--and, when all else forsake him, why, then the

most graceful of the birds shall be his friends."

Poor Caspar's mother considered that she had accomplished a great thing

in persuading the fairy to act as godmother; but his father thought he

could do better for his son in teaching him his own handicraft to the

best of his ability.

And therefore, with an extraordinary amount of care and patience, the

old man instructed his little lad how to manage his awl; and, ere he

died, had the satisfaction of knowing that his Caspar bade fair to

become as clever a cobbler as any in the city.

Several years had passed, and Caspar lived on alone in the little attic

near the castle wall. The way up to his room was dark and narrow, up

rickety stairs, and along crooked passages; but, once at the top, there

was plenty of cheerful light streaming in through the dormer-window, and

the twittering of the birds, as they built their nests in the eaves, had

something pleasant and gay.

The feathered songsters were Caspar's most constant companions, and he

understood every word they said. He confided to them all his secrets,

amongst others, what a proud man he should be, the day he made a pair of

shoes for the king! Other secrets he imparted also to the birds, which

the city folk down in the streets guessed little about.

Many and many a time, as Caspar sat so much alone, he would sigh, and

wish that his fairy-godmother would come and see him sometimes. But,

alas, that could not be, for the king had given strict orders that the

sentinels posted at the city gates should allow "no fairy bodies" in.

Even the very last of the kind was, by a new law, banished to

far-distant fairyland. "No more magic wands, no more wonders nowadays,"

sighed poor Caspar; "nothing can be won but by hard and constant work,

work, work!"

Moreover, poor Caspar had to learn that even honest work sometimes fails

to ward off hunger and poverty. For many a long month the crooked

little cobbler was doomed to toil, and to suffer privation as well. He

might make his boots and shoes night and day, and lay them out, pair by

pair, in neat rows along a shelf in the corner of his attic, but what

availed all this if no customer ever ventured up to look at them, nor

even to order mendings?

The fact was, that about this time the folk in that old city began to

wear _wooden_ shoes, which, they said, were good enough for them, and

lasted longer than any other.

Only fair-haired, blue-eyed Mabel, Dame Dimity's daughter, who had the

daintiest little feet in the world, and knew how to dance like any

fairy--she wore lovely little shoes manufactured by Caspar.

When Midsummer-day came round Mabel was elected May-queen. Then she came

tripping up the rickety staircase, and along the dingy passage to the

attic workshop, in Cobweb Corner. "Caspar, Caspar, here, quick! My

measure for a darling little pair of shoes to dance in!" and she held

out the most elegant little foot which any shoemaker could possibly

choose for a pattern.

Three days after that the shoes were finished, a bonnie wee pair of

crimson ones, in the softest of kid-leather; and when Mabel came to

fetch them, and tried them on, they fitted like a glove. She drew them

both on, and danced round the room to show how delighted she was. And

dear! how lovely they looked, all three--Mabel and the little red

shoes!!

Poor deformed Caspar smiled as he watched her, and felt happy to have

rendered her so happy.

"I love to see you, little Mabel," he said, "and that is why I shall

shut up my workshop on Midsummer-day, and go out to the common when you

are crowned 'Queen o' the May.' I only wish the sky may be as blue--as

blue--as your eyes are, Mabel!" And then the crooked little cobbler

stammered and blushed at his own forwardness in paying such a compliment

to the prettiest maiden in the land.

But little Mabel said, "I will watch out for you, Caspar. I shall care

for nobody on all the green so much as you."

Caspar could scarcely quite believe little Mabel when she said this; yet

he was greatly touched by her kindness, and he promised to go and look

at her from afar.

When Midsummer-day dawned over that old city the weather was

beautiful--the sky, as blue as Mabel's eyes; and young and old flocked

out to bask in the sunshine, and enjoy the games and the merry-making.

Even the king sallied forth from his castle, accompanied by his

courtiers, to favour with his presence the time-honoured custom of

crowning the May-queen.

When he beheld little Mabel he exclaimed, "What a lovely maiden, fit to

be a princess!"

Caspar was standing quite near, and heard it with his own ears. He

expected after that to see Mabel drop a curtsey to the king. But no, the

little maiden looked straight at him--poor Caspar--instead, and with her

queen's flowery wand, pointed down to her bonnie crimson shoes.

The cobbler of Cobweb Corner was becoming dazed with happiness. Curious

thoughts about his fairy-godmother crept into his head; strange thrills

of pleasure and of pain shot through his dwarfish frame, and turned him

well-nigh sick with emotion. It seemed to Caspar that he had grown older

and younger in that one summer day. He felt giddy, and suddenly longed

for his quiet attic in Cobweb Corner.

He stole silently away, and had left the crowd behind him on the Common,

when he suddenly became aware of a tiny hand slipped into his own; and,

looking down to the ground, observed a dainty pair of red shoes tripping

lightly by his side. "What! little Mabel?"

"I just wanted to leave when you would leave, Caspar. For there was

nobody on all the green I cared for so much as you."

Ah, this time he did believe her,--poor Caspar! And so he must tell her

all _his_ secret. "I love you, little Mabel, oh so much! And oh, if some

day you could marry me, I should keep you in darling little crimson

shoes all your life! And who knows--perhaps through your love Mabel--I

might grow better-looking. They said my godmother promised it."

"I love you as you are, plain or handsome, you dear, good Caspar," cried

little Mabel, "and I will marry you just as soon as my mother, Dame

Dimity, gives her consent!"

Alas! True love is ever doomed to be crossed, else this little tale of

ours had been a good deal shorter; had, perhaps, even ended here!

Dame Dimity would on _no_ account yield her consent to the union of her

daughter, the beauty of the town, with the cobbler of Cobweb Corner.

Why, if it came to that, there was Christopher Clogs, the wooden

shoemaker, who was a good figure and a wealthy man to boot! He lived in

the Market Place, and drove a thriving business, whilst Caspar was known

to have only one coat to his back. Really the effrontery of Cobweb

Corner was astounding!

Poor Mabel's eyes were now often dimmed with tears; yet once every day

she passed through the narrow street near the castle wall, and gazed up

at Caspar's gable-window, until she saw the little shoemaker smile down

at her. After she had vanished, Caspar would feel very lonely; yet he

said to himself, "When I want to see her blue eyes, then I must look at

the sky. She'll always have blue eyes, and she'll always be _my Mabel_."

These days Caspar rarely left his workshop in the old garret. He was

very poor, and had nothing to buy with; so he went to no shops, and he

avoided the neighbours, as they were beginning to make merry about him,

and Mabel, and Dame Dimity. He could not bear to hear them say that

Mabel was betrothed to Christie Clogs, the wooden shoemaker. Anything

but that!

When he had nobody to talk to, why, he opened his window to converse

with the swallows, and asked them every evening what was the news--for

Caspar could not afford to take in a newspaper.

"Oh, what do you think!" they cried one night, swirling round his head

in circles, as their custom was, "here is something to interest you,

Caspar! The king has got _sore feet_--from wearing tight boots, they

say,--and sits in an arm-chair with his feet wrapped up in a flannel.

We saw it all just a while ago."

"I took stock of His Majesty's feet that day," said Caspar promptly,

"the day he was out on the 'Green.' I can't help measuring people's feet

with my eye," he added apologetically to the swallows; "you see, it's my

trade, and it is the only thing I am good at."

But ere he had finished speaking, the friendly swallows had described

their last swift circle in the air, and, with a sharp scream of

"Goodnight," had darted into their nests under the old pointed roof.

That evening, ere he lay down in _his_ nest, poor Caspar had cut out of

soft, well-tanned leather a pair of shoes, which he knew to be the

king's own measure. "Ah," said Caspar, "the poor king must have his new

shoes as soon as possible, for it is awful to suffer toe-ache, and to be

obliged to sit all day long with one's feet swathed in flannel." And

Caspar sat with his leather apron on, and wrought as if for life and

death at the new shoes. He was too busy even to rise and look at the

window for little Mabel passing by.

At last they were completed. Then the humpbacked cobbler, having washed

his hands, and brushed his one coat, went off, quivering with

excitement, bearing the new shoes in his hands, away downstairs, and

through the narrow street under the castle wall, till he came and stood

before the castle gate. Here the sentinel on duty demanded what he

wanted.

"Pair of shoes for His Majesty," responded Caspar in a businesslike

manner, and was admitted.

When he had crossed the courtyard, and had arrived at the entrance of

the inner apartments, he was accosted by a couple of lackeys covered

with gold lace, and with powdered hair.

"Heigho! What's all this!" they exclaimed. "Where dost thou hail from,

old Hop-o'-my-thumb?"

"I am Caspar the cobbler, of Cobweb Corner," replied the little man

gravely; "as you may perceive by these new shoes which I bring for the

king, and which are His Majesty's exact fit."

"Begone, knave!" cried the lackeys indignantly. "Dost thou imagine the

king would wear anything contrived by the likes of thee. Be off, old

mountebank, ere thou and thy shoes are flung into the castle dungeon!"

In vain poor Caspar intreated; they would not even listen to him. At

last, in utter terror for his life, he hurried away, disappointed,

mortified, sick at heart, carrying the despised piece of workmanship, at

which he had toiled so carefully and conscientiously all these weeks,

back home to his obscure lodging in Cobweb Corner. Here, overcome with

vexation, the little man flung himself upon his bed, and cried himself

asleep.

When he awoke it was evening. A fresh breeze was gently stirring the

casement, the window was open, and the swallows passing and repassing it

in circles, producing a screaming, chattering noise all the time.

Caspar's eye fell first on his work-table, on which lay, side by side,

his latest, best work, the brand new shoes for the king. Ah! the

swallows saw them too, and this was the cause of all the extra

twittering and screaming this evening.

"Dear feathered friends," cried Caspar, springing to the open window,

"how can ye help me? They are finished! They fit! But how are they to be

conveyed to His Majesty? The menials in the castle would not let me in."

"Wee--wee--we could carry _one_!" piped the swallows, slily, dipping

their long lanced wings, and swirling swiftly by.

"No, not _one_, ye silly creatures!" cried Caspar all out of breath;

"_both_ or none!"

The swallows made a second long sweep, and as they neared the gablet

again, hissed forth, "Singly were surer." But, as Caspar made a sign of

impatience, four of his friends, the swifts, darted straight across the

window-sill to the work-table, and, seizing the new shoes by heel and

toe, sped off with them across the old wall to the royal castle.

It seemed but an instant and they were back, screaming and hissing and

circling towards their nest in the eaves. Caspar put his head out at

the open casement, and listened anxiously to their sounds.

"Dropped them at his bed-room window--the little balcony--some one

opened--took them in--so, so, sleep well, sleep well,--goodnight!"

The following morning Caspar the cobbler was up and dressed before

daybreak, and down in the streets, in and out amongst the crowds, trying

to overhear some gossip about the king.

The city folk were surprised to see him once more in their midst; and

good-naturedly permitted him to sit at their firesides for old times'

sake, although he called for no ale, nor lighted a long pipe like the

others. All poor Caspar desired was to ascertain the latest court news;

but, to his annoyance, he was doomed to learn first a great many things

that did not please him about Dame Dimity and Christie Clogs.

At last, late on in the afternoon, somebody inquired if the company were

informed of the good tidings, "that His Majesty the king was recovered

of his foot-ache, and could walk about again, thanks to a shoemaker who

had succeeded in fitting His Majesty's foot to a 'T.'"

"_That_ shoemaker, whoever he be, has founded his own fortune this day!"

exclaimed the innkeeper.

Caspar sprang to his feet, and at the same time the pewter tankards and

all the pipes, the host and all the customers, danced round before his

eyes. With a great gasp of excitement he bounded out to the street, and

sped on to the market place, past Dame Dimity's, and past Christie

Clogs', and on to the narrow street with the overshadowing wall, and on,

and on, until he arrived at the royal entrance. He obtained admittance

as before, and pressed forward till he was arrested by the supercilious

lackeys in gold-lace livery.

"What! here again, old Hop-o'-my-thumb!" cried they.

"But I am the royal shoemaker, gentlemen!" exclaimed Caspar, proudly,

"and that was my own work which I carried in my hand yesterday morning."

"What knavery is this?" returned the head menial of the castle, "the

royal shoemaker, villain, is no clumsy clown from these parts; but he

and his wares come from abroad, from Paris. He is, moreover, with the

king at present, receiving his reward for the beautiful new pair of

shoes in softly-tanned leather, which arrived last night at dusk. He is

an elegant gentleman, this Parisian, and knows fine manners as well as

his trade, for he ne'er goes nor comes without dealing out _largesse_ to

us, the gentlemen attendants, and therein exhibits his good breeding."

"But the shoes!" stammered out Caspar all aghast. "The shoes! I made

them, and His Majesty the king has them on at this very moment. Confound

your Parisian!" he screamed, waxing wroth; "it was _I_ who made the

shoes--they were found on the western balcony last night--His Majesty

must know that they are the work of Caspar the cobbler, of Cobweb

Corner!"

At this moment a musical murmur of voices was audible from within, and a

creaking of boots; and at once the angry lackeys turned smiling faces

towards the departing French merchant, who politely pressed a little

coin into each of their outstretched palms.

When at length he took his departure, Caspar followed him some way with

a very ugly expression disfiguring his features. "I could kill this

dandy interloper, who steals the reward and credit of my hard-earned

toil! I could stick my awl through him!"

Poor Caspar, it was well that at this instant he was accosted by his

loving little angel, his sweet, blue-eyed Mabel!

"Eh, my Caspar, whatever has come over you, and whither are you going,

that you do not even see your own Mabel? And, oh! I am thankful to have

met you now, for look, Caspar, with trudging past Cobweb Corner every

day my pretty shoes are well-nigh worn through! So I must have a new

pair, and you may set about making them at once."

Then poor Caspar told her about his grievous disappointment at the

castle, and the insults and humiliation he had experienced at the hands

of the royal underlings. "It is too bad." he said, "to think that nobody

knows that I made them!"

"The swallows know it," added Mabel pensively, "and you should have

followed their advice; for, after all, they are your best friends."

"What!" returned Caspar sharply, "and sent only one at a time? Is that

what you mean, Mabel?"

"I dare say that was what _they_ meant," she returned.

Caspar groaned.

"But look," continued the little maiden gaily, her blue eyes dancing

with a bright idea, "remember this, O Caspar, the king's shoes must

by-and-by become worn through, like mine! And then--and then, he must

have new ones too--and then--and then we'll take the swallows' advice,

and act with greater caution."

That evening when Caspar went home to Cobweb Corner, and flung open his

gable-window, there were _no_ graceful circles described overhead, and

_no_ twittering amongst the eaves. All was silent. The swallows had

taken leave of Cobweb Corner, and of the royal castle, and of the quaint

old city, with its many spires and turrets. They were off, all together,

a joyous merry troup of tourists, swiftly, swiftly winging their way to

warmer climes for the winter.

Poor Caspar missed them sadly, and reproached them a little at first for

being heartless, selfish creatures. Soon, however, he gained courage

again; and began to work at Mabel's shoes ... and then at the king's--to

have them ready by spring time, when, as the little maiden said, "the

others should be worn out."

Several times that winter Caspar saw the king walk out in the identical

shoes his hands had manufactured; and his heart gave a leap every time

he observed them becoming thinner.

At last the soft western breezes, the budding flowers, and the

bright-blue, sunny sky of springtime came again; and the swallows

returned swiftly, swiftly, swirling and screaming, just as they had done

last year. They nested in their old corner under the eaves of Caspar's

gable-roof. And by-and-by, when it was gossipped throughout the city

that the king's feet were paining him again, because the very last new

shoes--which _really_ came from Paris, didn't fit at all, then the

swallows at nightfall hissed at Caspar's window, "_Soon, soon, see they

be ready! Singly is surely!_"

The dandified tradesman from Paris arrived at the castle with all his

samples; but he was received with suspicion, and dismissed in disgrace,

and this time distributed no _largesse_ amongst the gold-laced lackeys.

The same night the swallows might have been observed darting off from

Cobweb Corner, bearing _one_ neatly-made shoe in soft, well-tanned

leather. They dropped it outside the royal window, on the western

balcony.

The following morning there was a great proclamation out all over the

town. The mayor read it aloud on the market place in front of Christie

Clogs' house, offering an immense reward to the person who could produce

the missing shoe, "fellow to that one discovered on the king's balcony

last night"; and a second reward, "ten times as great to the

manufacturer of the said pair of shoes, which fitted His Majesty to a

'T.'"

In front of the crowd thronging the market place stood Caspar, his

figure erect, his face transformed into a beautiful face by the delight

which had taken possession of his whole soul. The success of an honest

workman beamed in his countenance, and rendered the poor cobbler noble.

Mabel ran to his side, and he placed the missing shoe in her hands. "It

is safe with my true, blue-eyed darling!" cried Caspar proudly; and the

people raised a hearty cheer.

Then they formed a procession, and, with Caspar and Mabel at their head,

marched to the royal presence.

This time the king received Caspar himself, and from Mabel's lips

learned the whole story of the shoes from the very beginning.

After that, there was great rejoicing in the quaint old city; for both

Caspar and Mabel were now the favourites with all the better folk. The

king issued a command for their immediate marriage, and appointed Caspar

to a post in the castle.

But the only title Caspar was willing to accept was that of "Cobbler to

the King"; and, as such, he subsequently removed his belongings from

Cobweb Corner to a fine large house which was prepared for him in the

market place.

The fairy godmother was allowed to come and grace the wedding with her

presence; and she promised so many blessings that Caspar and Mabel ought

to have been still happier if that had been possible.

As for Dame Dimity, she married Christie Clogs herself; and report says

she led a sore life of it when he came home tipsy at night, and began to

fling his wooden shoes about.

IV.

DAME DOROTHY'S DOG.

On the outskirts of Langaffer village, and not far from the great pine

forest, stood the cottage of old Dame Dorothy, with its latticed windows

and picturesque porch, and its pretty little garden, fenced in with

green palings and privet hedge.

Dame Dorothy was a nice, particular old lady, who spent her time in and

about her house, trying to make things neat and cosy. In winter she

might be seen polishing her mahogany furniture, rubbing bright her

brazen candlesticks and copper kettle, or sweeping about the fireplace;

whilst in summertime she was mostly busy weeding her garden, raking the

little walks, and watering her flowers.

Yet she never smiled, only sighed very often; and toiled every day more

diligently than the day before.

Strange to say, Dame Dorothy was not comfortable in spite of all her

conscientiously-performed labours; nor happy, although she lived in such

a beautiful little cottage. She never imagined for a moment that the

cause of this could be the fact--that she kept a black dog.

Black Nero was a magnificent mastiff, with not a white hair on his back.

He had run into Dame Dorothy's one Fifth of November from the forest,

when quite a little puppy; and she had housed him and fed him ever

since; and now she was so much attached to him that she declared she

could not part with him for the world.

In return for her care he trampled over her flower-beds, tore down her

hollyhocks, and scraped up the roots of her "London Pride" with his

fore-paws; made a passage for himself through her privet hedge, and lay

stretched on fine days his full length on her rustic sofa in the

door-porch.

When the rosy-cheeked village children passed by to school in the

morning Nero snarled and snapped at them through the railings, so that

not one durst venture to say "Good-morrow, Dame Dorothy."

Even the next-door neighbours were afraid of him; and some acquaintances

of the widow, who themselves kept cats and dogs, and nice little soft

kittens as pets, now rarely invited her over to a friendly dance or a

wedding or christening; for if they did the black dog was certain to

accompany his mistress; and then, in the midst of the party, he would

raise such a barking, and create such a confusion, that none of the

dames could get speaking.

In winter, when the cold blasts swirled dreamily through the leafless

branches of the Langaffer beeches, causing them to creak and moan; when

the snow lay thick upon the ground, and the nights closed in apace, and

the villagers relished the comforts of the "ingle-nook,"

then--alas!--there was no fireside enjoyment for poor Dame Dorothy. She

might fasten her shutters, and draw her armchair close to the hearth;

she might pile up the logs in the chimney to make a blazing fire--but

all in vain! Home cheer there was none; for the black dog was there,

with his great body extended between her and the warmth. She might boil

the kettle, and gaze at herself in its shining lid; but Nero's face was

reflected in the kettle-lid too; and in all the lids, and pots and pans,

and pewters and coppers right round the room, with his ugly muzzle

half-open for growling and snarling.

Moreover, the dog was so greedy and thankless, he never wagged his tail,

but would snap at the victuals his mistress herself was eating; and when

she did give him the choicest dainties that came off her gridiron, and

the very top of the cream, he would only whine for more.

For all this, Dame Dorothy had no idea of parting with the graceless

brute, but continued to pet and pamper him. She was even secretly proud

of Nero, because he was the biggest dog in the village, and by far the

most terrible. Once she told the neighbours over the palings that he was

a great protection to her, especially at night, and she "such a poor

lone widow!"

Whereupon these good people honestly replied, "Oh, Mistress Dorothy,

never dread a worse enemy than your own black dog!"

Then in her heart she remembered how that very morning Nero had indeed

caught her thumb between his teeth when impatiently snatching his food;

and how the evening before he had upset the milkpail, and left the black

mark of his paw on her new knitted quilt; and how, one day last week, he

had sat down on her best Sunday cap. And Dame Dorothy knew in her heart

that the village folk spoke truly; but she would not acknowledge it,

no--but with a melancholy shake of her head, repeated, "Poor dear Nero!

People have something against thee, my dear black doggie!"

Now it happened that one fine morning in May, when the lark was warbling

high overhead, and the hawthorn bushes were putting on their first pink

blossoms, and all the forest was gay with budding flowers and singing

birds, and the village school-children were passing hand-in-hand,

carrying their little slates and satchels, that they met a tiny fairy

all in white, with a wondrous beaming face, and golden hair floating

down over her shoulders. Naturally they stopped to stare at her, for

they had never seen such a lovely little lady before; and she smiled

pleasantly, for she had never beheld such a collection of wondering

round eyes, and so many wide-open mouths gaping at her.

Presently she asked, "Can you tell me, young people, whose is that

pretty cottage, so nicely situated at the corner of the wood, with the

beautiful porch and palings?"

"Dame Dorothy's!" exclaimed they all in a breath.

"It must be very delightful there," she continued. "I shall go in, and

see Dame Dorothy."

"Don't! She keeps a dog," cried one, "and he will eat you up."

"Such a nasty, big black dog," added another, "that barks----"

"Like a lion," interposed a third.

"And bites like a tiger!" added a fourth.

"Oh, don't go, pretty lady!" repeated a fifth and sixth, and many more

childish voices together; "and pray don't open the gate, for we are all

so afraid he might spring out at us."

"Thank you, my dears, but I am not afraid," said the fairy. "And I

intend to visit Dame Dorothy all the same."

Then the children were more astonished still when they saw her glide in

between the palings without ever unlatching the gate. She was such a

slender little fairy-body! But they held their breaths, and clutched at

one another's skirts with fear, as they heard the harsh yelp of Nero,

and perceived him bounding forward from his seat in the doorway.

"Ah! eh! oh! he will devour her!" they all gasped out together. But just

then the little lady was waving her tiny hand toward their school-house;

and they all ran on so fast, so fast, that the door was not quite closed

when they arrived.

And now the good little fairy with her white dress, and her golden

tresses floating behind her, fixed her blue eyes very steadily on the

dog's black eyes, and held up her tiny forefinger.

Thus she walked straight into Dame Dorothy's cottage, and, as she flung

open the door, a whole flood of sunshine streamed in along with her.

And the black dog hung his head, and followed her slowly, growling and

grinding his teeth as if he would best like to snatch her, and munch her

up, and swallow her down all in a minute.

But Dame Dorothy was enchanted with her bright little visitor; for, to

tell the truth, the callers-in were very rare that year at the woodside

cottage, and the widow's heart often yearned for some one to speak to.

The white fairy inquired how it was that so few flowers were seen in the

garden, and so few birds' nests under the eaves of the cottage; and why

Dame Dorothy did not take her knitting that fine morning, and enjoy the

bright sun in the doorway?

The widow looked melancholy, and heaved a deep sigh; but the black dog,

who had overheard every syllable, sneaked away with a low growling

noise, and knocked down a chair on purpose to indicate his malice.

"I shall return another day," said the good little fairy as she rose to

take leave, "and bring you such a sweet nosegay fresh from the forest,

to decorate the table and cheer your heart, because," she added, quite

in a whisper, lest Nero might hear her--"because I am sorry to see you

have none left in your flower-beds."

From this day forth Dame Dorothy's dog was "poorly." He skulked about

the garden, keeping to the gravel walk, with drooping ears and tail

between his legs. And by-and-by he began to leave his food untasted.

The poor widow noticed the change, and became anxious. Then presently

she grew more uneasy; and at last, greatly concerned about her

favourite's health, she set about cutting him out a warm coat for the

autumn out of her own best velvet mantle, for she was sure he had taken

the influenza.

By-and-by she observed that Nero grew worse on the days of the bright

little fairy's visits; that no sooner did the white robe and the golden

hair cross the threshold than he would move away from the fireside,

slink whining under the tables and chairs, and pass outside the house

altogether.

Yet Dame Dorothy could not help loving the sunny fairy who every time

fetched a lovely posy of sweet-scented flowers from the forest; to say

nothing of her winning voice, her musical laughter, her gentle, loving

eyes.

And the village children trooped often now past the woodside cottage,

for they wanted to catch a glimpse of the fairy as she went in and out;

and they were quite overjoyed when she spoke to them.

At last one day Dame Dorothy, who had got into the habit of telling the

fairy everything, thought she would consult her about her dog.

"Ah me, my poor Nero!" she said; "look at him, he is not thriving at

all. And what will become of me, a lone widow woman, if aught befall my

black dog? And only think, I cannot persuade him to wear the jacket I

sewed for him out of my own best mantle!"

"Poor black dog!" said the little fairy as gravely as she could, and

nothing more.

After that she went away; and the same night the dog disappeared.

Dame Dorothy sought for him high and low, called him by name, coaxingly,

entreatingly; but all in vain. Then she sat down in her great armchair

by her own fireside, and began to weep for her favourite.

Now it was a very comfortable chair, and the beech-logs in the wide

grate sent out a nice warm glow, and it was the first time for months

that the rightful possessor of the place could enjoy these in

undisturbed tranquillity.

Dame Dorothy soon fell fast asleep. And then she had such funny dreams

about _white_ dogs, and _black_ fairies, and school children, all

clothed in little jackets cut out of her own best mantle, that she

laughed aloud several times in her sleep, and indeed did not waken until

the morning sun sent his beams in through the diamond panes of her

window.

Many days Dame Dorothy searched for her black dog in every corner of the

cottage, and under every bush in the garden, and all among her privet

hedge, for she was sure he had lain down in some spot to die. But not

the least trace of him did she discover.

And then she gathered up all her grief to pour it forth in one loud,

intense lamentation the first time the bright little fairy should

arrive.

"But oh, do not weep so, good Dame Dorothy," said the little lady.

"When I return again, I shall fetch you another pet to keep you company

all day long, and bring joy to your heart, and peace to your fireside!"

She kept faithful to her promise, the good little fairy; for the next

time she came from the forest she brought with her a lovely

white-breasted _turtle-dove_ for Dame Dorothy.

The village children saw her on the road, and they all flocked in before

her, crying, "Good-morrow, Dame Dorothy. Oh, you are going to get such a

beautiful, _beautiful_ bird!" Then the old lady smiled at the children,

as she never had smiled for years and years.

And, as the days went by, the little garden near the great pine forest

grew fair and fragrant. The roses and the sweet woodbine clambered over

the pretty porch. The hollyhocks and the London-pride flourished once

more, and the little birds built their nests, and twittered fearlessly

under the eaves of the rustic cottage.

The new white pet became so tame and so gentle that it would eat from

its mistress's hand, and would perch lovingly upon her shoulder.

And when she was invited by her old acquaintances in the village to an

afternoon party, she was always requested to bring her pet along with

her; for all the villagers, young and old, who had formerly dreaded the

great black dog, now loved and welcomed _Dame Dorothy's dove_.

V.

THE LITTLE LOCKSMITH.

Long ago there lived in Langaffer a light-hearted, light-haired, lazy

little lad called Randal. He enjoyed a happy home, health and high

spirits, and a gay, merry life with his brothers and sisters.

They went to no school, but in the early Spring days sallied forth to

gather primroses and anemones; they knew the spot where the tallest

rushes grew, for plaiting into butterflies' cages, the best

seggan-leaves for tiny canoes, and could tell where the finest

blackbirds' eggs were to be found.

In autumn, when the leaves were turning yellow, and the squirrels were

fat and tame, they roamed together through the dingle in search of

hazel-nuts; and waded up and down the shallow stream, their chatter

mingling with its bubbling noise, whilst they tried to catch the darting

minnows.

Every corner of the village had echoed with their laughter, and with the

shrill, clear voice of Randal, the bonniest and blithest of the band.

Now, in a shady grove, at some distance from the village, there stood a

quaint-looking edifice, with antique windows and sculptured pillars

partly overgrown with ivy. The tiny lads and lasses of Langaffer knew it

well enough by sight; but little cared they who lived there, or what

might be inside. In the long summer twilight they chased one another

round the basement walls, and startled the swallows from the eaves with

their joyous screams; and that was enough for them.

Yet there came a day when Randal was alone, lying listlessly his full

length upon the grass, flapping away the midges with a blade of

spear-grass, just in front of the mansion, when he beheld the portal

open, and a youth step forth.

The young man had a beaming countenance, and walked with a quick,

elastic step.

Then Randal wondered for the first time in his life what that lofty

edifice could be, and why the youth came "all so smiling out" from its

stately portico. He sprang to his feet, and, running forward, cried out,

"Pray, sir, can you tell me what building is this?"

"Oh, a beautiful fairy palace," cried the stranger, "with such wonderful

things in every apartment! The oftener one enters, the more one sees,

and all so curious, so lovely!"

"What! Then you will take me with you the next time you go?" cried

Randal, eagerly.

"Oh, no, my lad," said the stranger. "If you wish to enter in you must

have a key of your own."

"But _where_ shall I get one?" said Randal.

"Make it!" was the reply. "If you go to the forge at the four roads'

end, and apprentice yourself to the locksmith there, he will show you

how to set about it. It's a labour that's well repaid."

The youth went away, and his words filled Randal with a strange yearning

to behold the interior of the mysterious mansion.

But he lost no time; he ran full speed till he came to the forge at the

four roads' end, and begged the locksmith to receive him as an

apprentice, and teach him how to construct a magic key, that would open

the fairy palace.

And there, at the smithy, Randal beheld a number of little locksmiths

about his own age, each with a leathern apron on, and arms bared to the

elbows, working away at the anvil. They were all making keys, and some

had well-nigh finished, whilst others were only beginning.

Then little Randal bared his arms too, and got a leathern apron on, and

began to work with all his might, thinking only of the beautiful fairy

palace, that stood so silent and majestic in the midst of the shady

pine-grove.

What could be within its walls? When should he obtain a peep at all the

wondrous things he had heard of? Not till his key was ready!

And alas! it was heavy work at the smithy. Day after day must the little

mechanic toil, till the great beads of perspiration gathered upon his

brow.