around. How many stories had she listened
to by the winter hearth, of children stolen
by the fairies, at nightfall, in lonely places!
With this fear she knew her mother was
haunted.

No one in the country round gathered
her little flock about her so early as this
frightened widow, and no door "in the seven
parishes" was barred so early.

Sufficiently fearful, as all young people
in that part of the world are of such dreaded
and subtle agents, Nell was even more than
usually afraid of them, for her terrors were
infected and redoubled by her mother's.
She was looking towards Lisnavoura in a
trance of fear, and crossed herself again
and again, and whispered prayer after
prayer. She was interrupted by her
mother's voice on the road calling her loudly.
She answered, and ran round to the front
of the cabin, where she found her standing.

"And where in the world's the craythurs
—did ye see sight o' them
anywhere?" cried Mrs. Ryan, as the girl came
over the stile.

"Arrah! mother, 'tis only what they're
run down the road a bit. We'll see them
this minute, coming back. It's like goats
they are, climbin' here and runnin' there;
an' if I had them here, in my hand, maybe
I wouldn't give them a hiding all round."

"May the Lord forgive you, Nell! the
childhers gone. They're took, and not a
soul near us, and father Tom three miles
away! And what'll I do, or who's to help
us this night? Oh, wirristhru, wirristhru!
The craythurs is gone!"

"Whisht, mother, be aisy: don't ye see
them comin' up."

And then she shouted in menacing
accents, waving her arm, and beckoning the
children, who were seen approaching on
the road, which some little way off made a
slight dip, which had concealed them.
They were approaching from the
westward, and from the direction of the
dreaded hill of Lisnavoura.

But there were only two of the children,
and one of them, the little girl, was crying.
Their mother and sister hurried forward
to meet them, more alarmed than ever.

"Where is Billy—where is he?" cried
the mother, nearly breathless, so soon as
she was within hearing.

"He's gone—they took him away; but
they said he'll come back again," answered
little Con, with the dark brown hair.

"He's gone away with the grand ladies,"
blubbered the little girl.

"What ladies—where? Oh, Leum,
asthora! My darlin', are you gone away
at last? Where is he? Who took him?
What ladies are you talkin' about? What
way did he go?" she cried in distraction.

"I couldn't see where he went, mother;
'twas like as if he was going to Lisnavoura."

With a wild exclamation the distracted
woman ran on towards the hill alone,
clapping her hands, and crying aloud the
name of her lost child.

Scared and horrified, Nell, not daring to
follow, gazed after her, and burst into
tears; and the other children raised high
their lamentations in shrilly rivalry.

Twilight was deepening. It was long
past the time when they were usually
barred securely within their habitation.
Nell led the younger children into the
cabin, and made them sit down by the turf
fire, while she stood in the open door,
watching in great fear for the return of
her mother.

After a long while they did see their
mother return. She came in and sat down
by the fire, and cried as if her heart would
break.

"Will I bar the doore, mother?" asked
Nell.

"Ay, do—didn't I lose enough, this
night, without lavin' the doore open, for
more o' yez to go; but first take an'
sprinkle a dust o' the holy waters over ye,
acuishla, and bring it here till I throw a
taste iv it over myself and the craythurs;
an' I wondher, Nell, you'd forget to do the
like yourself, lettin' the craythurs out so
near nightfall. Come here and sit on my
knees, asthora, come to me, mavourneen,
and hould me fast, in the name o' God,
and I'll hould you fast that none can take
yez from me, and tell me all about it,
and what it was—the Lord between us
and harm—an' how it happened, and who
was in it."

And the door being barred, the two
children, sometimes speaking together,
often interrupting one another, often
interrupted by their mother, managed to tell
this strange story, which I had better relate
connectedly and in my own language.

The Widow Ryan's three children were
playing, as I have said, upon the narrow
old road in front of her door. Little Bill
or Leum, about five years old, with golden
hair and large blue eyes, was a very pretty
boy, with all the clear tints of healthy
childhood, and that gaze of earnest
simplicity which belongs not to town children
of the same age. His little sister Peg, about