"I said to myself that I was not done with my revenge on them yet. She could not speak and it was a sore punishment on the both of them. Yet she stayed on at the priest's house. The priest wrote letters to her father, as I heard, and gave them to merchants who were travelling, but none of them ever reached him. And Guleesh got mighty serious about his soul all at once, so that he had to be at the priest's house every day, and every day he saw the Princess. She could never talk to him, but she learned to make signs that he could understand. And so it went on for a year.

"And then, when it was November Eve again, and we had been out of the rath and were all coming into it again in a great crowd, there sat Guleesh, the same as before. He couldn't see us, but he must have heard us, for you could see that he was listening with all his ears.

And I thought now was the fine time to be having the laugh on him. By that time everybody was shouting: 'My horse and bridle and saddle! My horse and bridle and saddle!' and Guleesh shouted as before: 'My horse and bridle and saddle! My horse and bridle and saddle!'

"'Now is my chance to be even with him,' thought I, and I said: 'Ah, Guleesh, my boy, is that yourself that's to the fore again? You'll get no horse to-night and you'll play no more tricks on us. How are you getting on with your Princess? Does she talk to you much? Or do you just like to sit and look at her?'

"And when I said that, he looked so pale and so sad that I almost screamed with joy, and I couldn't keep myself from whispering to the man that was next to me: 'And isn't he the stupid omadhaun, not to know that there's an herb growing close to his own door that would give her back her speech if he'd only boil it and give it to her?'

"'It's the stupid omadhaun he is,' said the other man.

"Oh, and it was me that was the omadhaun, to be saying it at all. Oh, why couldn't I hold my jaw? But it was like some spell was on me, and I had to say it. I had to say it! I couldn't have kept it back if I'd tried. And he heard every word!

"It's little more there is to tell. The next morning, as soon as there was light, there was Guleesh searching for any herb that was strange to him around the door. And it was not long till he found it. Then he boiled it, and he drank some of it himself, to see whether it might be poison, and it put him into a deep sleep. And when he woke he went to the priest's house and told the whole story and gave the Princess some of the drink, and then she went to sleep and did not wake till the next day. And when she woke she had her speech back.

"Ah, well, by this time they was both in love with each other, and all that I did for myself or against them had only helped them. But it was not long before the Princess was saying that she must be off to her father, and nothing that the priest and Guleesh could do would make her stay. So the priest took the jewels that she had on her when Guleesh first brought her, and he sold them and gave her the money, and she took it and paid her way back to France.

"And after that great grief and melancholy came over Guleesh, and nothing would do him but he must start off for France to find the Princess again. Start off he did, and that was the last that I ever saw of him, only I heard that he found the Princess at her father's court and that at long last they were married."

There was nothing strange in the last that Naggeneen had told--nothing more strange, I mean, than that a peasant boy should marry the daughter of the King of France--but his voice, before he had ended, was so low and so full of grief that all the other fairies kept very still to listen, and when he had told his story none of them spoke for a little while. At last the King said: "How long was all this ago, Naggeneen?"

"Many years," Naggeneen answered; "I couldn't be counting how many."

"Then what is it to you now?" said the King. "Sure they're both dead long ago, and here are you as sound as ever."

"Yes," Naggeneen cried, "as sound as ever and as sound as I'll ever be. They're not dead. They had souls. They're alive now, and when what they call 'the Last Day' comes, they'll live still, forever. And then I shall go out, like a shadow when the light falls on it. There's no more of me that can last than a shadow. And you will go out that way, too, and all of us. It was not her that I wanted so much. It was the soul that I thought I'ld get, and her married to me. That was it. And a stupid mortal had tricked me twice. It was then I left the rath. It was then I could bear to look at n.o.body, man or fairy. Then I put on the red jacket and went by myself. After a time I was a lepracaun, and a cluricaun, and nothing at all, as it suited me, and sometimes I lived in a rath with others, as I have in yours, and other times I went by myself. But I never forgot how I was tricked by a mortal, and I've never forgot how I missed getting a soul when I was near to it.

"You've never liked me; you've always thought me sour and harsh and cruel. Do you see why now? Since that time I've always hated all men, because of the one that tricked me; and I've always hated all women, because of the one I lost; and I've always hated all fairies, because they are all as weak and helpless and pitiful as myself. I hate myself and I hate all of you, because there's no good for any of us in all the world forever."

"Naggeneen," said the King, "we've never been too fond of you, it's true, but maybe we'ld have liked you better if you'd told us this before. But you're cleverer than all of us. Tell us what we'll do now, so that these mortals won't be getting the better of us all out."

"What'll you do?" Naggeneen answered; "there's nothing you can do.

They'll outwit you, whatever you do."

"But there must be some way. Tell us what to do, Naggeneen," the King pleaded.

"I'll tell you what to do, then," said Naggeneen; "send out your people and let them learn the ways of men. Let them learn to make the iron coaches that go up in the air; let them learn to make the coaches that go on the ground, with the iron ropes; let them learn to talk miles away through iron strings; let them learn to make the bright lights that you see; let them learn to open the rock so that it will not close again; let them learn to cross running water in boats full of iron; let them learn to handle iron and do what they like with it, as if it were only gold, and then, maybe, they'll be able to do all the things that men do."

The fairies were simply cowering away from the King and Naggeneen and shivering and squealing with fright at the talk of handling iron and crossing running water. "Ah, Naggeneen," said the King, "you know we can't do all that. Tell us what we'll do at all."

"There's nothing that you can do," said Naggeneen. "There's only one thing I know you can try, and I think that'll do no good either."

"But what is it?" said the King. "We'll try it, anyway."

"It's not the time to try it yet," Naggeneen answered. "When the time comes I'll tell you."

"Then, Naggeneen," said the King, "give us a tune out of the fiddle."

And Naggeneen took the fiddle and played. But there was no merriment in it now. It was only the breath of sorrow and loss and disappointment that breathed from the shivering strings. The fairies did not dance; they only stood and listened, pale and still. In a few moments the King gave the sign for Naggeneen to stop, and in a minute more the lights were out and the whole palace was as quiet as the hill, before any palace was there.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ]

V

THE TIME FOR NAGGENEEN'S PLAN

Little happened that needs to be told in the next few months, either to the fairies or to the human people. John O'Brien and Peter Sullivan were not long in finding work to do, and they were paid for it, and the two families got on better than they had in Ireland. The O'Briens got on better than the Sullivans. John was a better workman than Peter. Peter could do the work that was set before him in the way that he was told. But John could do better than that. He could see for himself how the work ought to be done, and he saw that if he did it well he might get better work to do. In Ireland, work as he would, he could no more than live, and so he had come to care little what he did or how he did it. But it was different here. The men who employed him saw that he was not a common workman, and soon they gave him better than the common work and more than the common pay.

But Peter was a common workman. Then, too, John's mother knew how to care for the house better than Ellen did, and because of that, too, the O'Briens did better. Every day, just as she used to do in Ireland, Mrs. O'Brien left something to eat and drink outside the house for the Good People. She said that she did not know whether there were any Good People here, but if there were they must be well treated. And when she found that what she left for them was taken, she said that she knew that there were Good People here. Of course she did not know that they were the same ones who had lived near them in Ireland. She put the milk and the water and the bread, or whatever she had for them, on the fire-escape, at the back of the rooms where they lived.

And first she always laid down a little piece of carpet to put the dishes on, so that the fairies could come and get the food without touching the iron, for she knew that they could never do that. There was only one thing that did not go well with the O'Briens. Kitty's health did not come back to her, as they had hoped that it would. She did not need to do any work now, though she would do some, and the rest was good for her, but she was still pale and still weak.

Though the Sullivans did not find their fortunes so much improved in the new country as the O'Briens did, yet they felt that they had gained, too, and in one way especially. For the King of the fairies had forbidden Naggeneen to trouble them any more. Naggeneen asked what for at all he had come over all the sea, if he was not to trouble the Sullivans. The King was always ready enough to have Naggeneen's help, when he thought that his cleverness would be of use; but there were times when he would be obeyed, and this was one of them, so Naggeneen had to do as he was told.

The King tried all the things that Naggeneen had told him to do, to make his people learn all the wonderful magic that the human people knew so well. Naggeneen had told him at first that it would all be of no use, and so the King found it. The fairies were sent out to watch the men, to see all that they did, and to learn how to do it. It was all in vain.

The King often asked Naggeneen what was the one other way that he had said they might try. Naggeneen would never tell. When the time came to try it, he said, he would tell what it was, but it would be of no more use than the rest that they had done. Naggeneen laughed at all the others when they came home baffled and out of sorts. "You'll never do the things that men do," he said, "any more than they'll ever do the things that you do. And their wonders are more and better than yours."

After a time they ceased to try to learn any more. They began to live much as they had lived in Ireland. They had found a green place where they could dance, near the palace, but it was winter now, and the snow was over everything much of the time. They went to the O'Briens every day for the food that was left outside the window for them, and, for the most part, they spent the rest of the time in the palace. Often Naggeneen played the fiddle or the pipes for them. Then they forgot that it was his fault that they had ever come here, but when he stopped playing they remembered it and hated him again. And Naggeneen laughed at them. He had a strange laugh, without a bit of merriment or good-humor in it. There was something sad in his laugh and something sour, but nothing that it was pleasant to hear.

Then the spring began to come. The gra.s.s was looking a bit green and the air was warmer. They could dance on the gra.s.s now, whenever they liked. They had given up trying to learn the ways of men, and they were beginning to feel as if they had always lived here. Then Naggeneen came one evening and stood before the King and said: "It is the time now to try my plan, if you want to try it, but it's no good."

"What's the plan, then, at all?" the King asked.

"You know well," said Naggeneen, "that your people can find out nothing by going out and watching what men do. Now, what you want is to get a human child here, or maybe two of them, and keep them and let them grow up with you here, and then send them out to learn everything that men do, and come back and teach it to your people. Then you'll learn all these things that men do, and you can do the like."

"Ah, Naggeneen," said the King, "it's yourself was always the clever boy. We'll do that same."

"You will so," Naggeneen replied, "and no good will it ever do you.

I've told you before and I tell you again, you'll never do the things that men do. But it's crazy you are to try all ways, and I have to be telling you the ways to try. Go on and do it, if it divarts you."

"And where'll we get the human child at all?" the Queen asked.

"Sure then," said Naggeneen, "and haven't you heard the news? Why, there's a baby at the Sullivans' since this morning, and one at the O'Briens' since this afternoon. The one at the Sullivans' is a boy and the one at the O'Briens' is a girl. Go and get them and leave two of your own people in their places. You know how to do that; it's nothing new to you."

"Take a child from the O'Briens!" the Queen cried. "From them that's always been so good to us and always given us the bit and sup, when they scarcely had it themselves? I'd never do such a thing."

"But you'ld be leaving one of your own people in the place of it,"

Naggeneen answered, "and they'ld never know the differ. Or if they did, it would be no matter. A woman makes a great hullabaloo when her child looks sick and she thinks it's dying on her, but she doesn't care at all after a little. And then, it doesn't die, and she thinks it's her own child all the time, and there's no harm done. And His Majesty here thinks it's going to do a power of good for all of you.

It's not, but he thinks it is."

"We'll never take a child from the O'Briens if I can help it," the Queen said. "From the Sullivans I don't care, but not from the O'Briens."

"We'll have to do it," said the King. "I don't like to hurt the O'Briens myself, but it's for the good of us all, and it's our only chance. These mortals are getting ahead of us that far, and they'll be doing something next that will exterminate us entirely. We'll send and get both the children."

The Queen urged again that the O'Briens had always been good to the Good People and must not be harmed, but the King had his mind set on Naggeneen's plan and he would hear of nothing else. It was settled and it could not be changed. They must have both children. They should live among the fairies till they were old enough to be sent out to learn the ways of men. And they should always come back and teach the fairies the ways of men that they had learned.