Once upon a time—how long ago really does not matter—there lived in a certain country—and where that country is, does not matter either—three young men of about the same age. They were not brothers, but they had always been neighbours, and they must have been some sort of cousins, for they had an old relation whom they all called uncle and who called them all nephews.

"Nephew Hodge," "nephew Giles," and "nephew Michael." Those were their names, though I fancy the last—he was the youngest—was more often "Mike" than "Michael."

They were all three steady, well-behaved fellows, and very friendly with each other, which was natural as in several ways their circumstances were curiously alike. They were all orphans, and though Hodge and Giles had sisters, these were married and settled at a distance, and as for Mike he had nobody at all belonging to him, and as he was a very affectionate creature, but for his two friends he would have felt lonely indeed. They were all poor—very poor—the one thing each had inherited from his parents was a home, such as it was. Just a small cottage with a bit of garden ground, which in their leisure hours each cultivated to the best of his ability, thus growing some hardy fruit and vegetables which helped to support them, and a few pretty flowers, to brighten things up a bit.

They had a little friendly rivalry over these tiny gardens. Hodge's produced the best vegetables, Giles's the finest fruit, but young Michael's far and away the loveliest flowers. And instead of quarrelling as to which of them deserved the most praise as a gardener, like sensible fellows, each gave a present to the other two of his special triumphs.

There was still another curious bond between the three—which in most cases would have been the very reverse of a bond, and pretty certainly would have dissolved the friendship. They were all in love with the same girl. A charming girl she was, but of her, more shall be told hereafter. Perhaps the hopelessness of their admiration for her helped to keep the peace, for they were far too poor to aspire to her, as she was a damsel with a dowry of gold and silver, as well as of sweet looks and sweet character. So the three used to sit together and sing her praises with no bitterness or jealousy.

The cottages stood at some distance apart, half or a quarter of a mile or so between them. So that in busy seasons, such as hay-making or harvesting, our friends sometimes saw very little of each other for days at a time, as they were not labourers on the same farm. But the long dull winter evenings they made a point of spending together, taking their cottages in turns as a meeting-place, for as to comfort, the three dwellings were much of a muchness, though Mike's somehow always looked the nicest, as in summer he adorned it with his flowers, and even in winter managed to tie up bunches of pretty leaves and bright-coloured berries to give his kitchen a cheerful air.

And besides these friendly evenings, the three young men always met on Sundays, and that all the year round. For on that day they had a standing invitation to dine with the old uncle, who was, as I forgot to say, also godfather to all three.

This personage was in some ways very peculiar and indeed rather mysterious. Strange stories were whispered concerning him through the country-side. Some said that he was a wizard; nearly all agreed that, at best, he had dealings with "the good people." But though to a certain extent he was feared, he was not disliked, as on more than one occasion he was known to have shown great kindness to families in distress, though how he came to hear so quickly of other folks' troubles remained a mystery, as he lived at a considerable distance from any other dwelling, and was too infirm ever to leave his own cottage.

He was of course reputed to be very rich, but that, as you will learn, was a mistake. And a miser he could not well be called, considering the kind actions I have alluded to, and the steady hospitality he showed to his godsons, Hodge, Giles, and Michael. The truth was—and there need be no secret about it—that "Uncle Peter" had a small pension for life, sufficient to keep him in simple comfort. For long ago he had been a soldier and a brave one, though he seldom talked of those old days. Sad things had happened to him, and for many years he had been a lonely man before, just about the time these grandnephews of his were born, he wandered back to the part of the country which had been his home as a boy, there, like Rip Van Winkle, to find none of his generation left, though he made friends in his own way with the remaining members of his family and their children.

Peter had travelled far and had seen queer places and queer people and had learnt some queer things. It was no great wonder that he got the name of being something of a wizard, for there was no doubt that he knew of things happening or going to happen in ways that could not be explained. But notwithstanding this, he was not regarded with fear, only with a kind of respectful awe. Even his godsons felt this, though at the same time they were really attached to him and grateful for his hospitality, in itself of a very strange character. For though he was never known to buy food of any sort, and was supposed to live entirely upon the fruit and vegetables he himself grew, and though he had no one to cook for him and no fireplace or stove where anything but the very simplest things could be boiled or roasted or even heated, the weekly dinner provided for his three guests, every Sunday, was of the very best. Not only was the food of excellent quality, it was also abundant. Indeed, at times when work was short, as in the winter often is the case, both for artisans in towns and for labourers in the country, I doubt if the three cousins would have kept as well and hearty as they did but for this substantial and nourishing meal regularly once a week.

They had often wondered how Uncle Peter managed it, and once or twice they had hazarded a tactful enquiry of their host on the subject. But it had served no purpose. On the contrary, both Hodge and Giles, who had been the questioners, had been quickly silenced by the old man's reply.

"Did you never hear the proverb about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?" he said the first time. "True, there is nothing about my dishes which you are not free to test if you choose, both as to quality and cooking. All the same, I think the saying conveys a broad hint as to the courtesy suited to those who accept a gift."

And to Giles he was even more severe.

"When you invite me to a Sunday feast, my good nephew," he said, "I promise to eat thereof with gratitude, and with no curiosity as to whence or how you procured it," at which reprimand Giles looked very foolish, and could only humbly ask Peter's pardon, adding, "That day, I misdoubt me, my respected uncle, will never dawn."

For, as I have already said, the three young men were very poor.

Still, when they were sitting of an evening by themselves, with no fear of offending the old man by their talk, it was only natural that they should discuss the mystery. There was a peculiar rule about their Sunday visit. They were obliged to be exceedingly punctual, by which I mean, neither too early nor too late. Half an hour after noon was the appointed time, so they arranged to meet at church, and when the service was over to wait in the porch till the ancient clock struck twelve, as they found that by then starting at once for Peter's cottage and walking rather quickly they reached it just a minute or two before the dinner hour.

Often, when waiting thus at the church door, they would receive a smile and a nod from the girl they all adored—pretty Ysenda—and now and then she would even stop a moment and say to whichever of the three happened to be nearest at hand, "My love to Uncle Peter, and a pleasant visit to him." Not that he was her uncle or any relation, but she had got into the habit of going to see him sometimes out of pity for his loneliness, and the old man had taken a great fancy to her. In fact she was the only visitor he ever received, with of course the exception of the nephews on Sunday.

Once—some time ago it was, when the custom had first begun—Michael had by accident arrived at Peter's cottage some minutes before the others. He was on the point of knocking at the door when something stopped him. He afterwards declared that he did not know what. But standing there, he heard sounds within—curious sounds—his uncle's voice, slow and solemn as if reciting something, then a very delicate tinkle as of a tiny bell, and lastly a whirring sound as of wheels moving quickly, and then complete silence. And while he was debating as to whether he should knock or not, to his relief he heard his cousins' footsteps approaching. He turned back a little way to meet them, but before he had time to tell them what he had heard, the door opened and their host stood there bidding them welcome.

Ever after that they all three came together as I have told you, and waited at a little distance till their uncle made his appearance. For Michael confided to his cousins that there had been something uncanny about the mysterious sounds. Furthermore he felt instinctively that he had not been meant to overhear them, and that if Peter knew of it he might have been angry, and possibly would never have invited them again.

Hence, Michael, of the three, was the most careful as to what he said to the old man, and never did he venture to show any curiosity on the subject of the whence or how of the mysterious feast.

But now and then he had a queer feeling that pretty Ysenda knew—what?—he could not define it, more clearly than by suspecting that she was in old Peter's confidence in a way that he and his friends were not.

And one evening—it was a Saturday—when the three were sitting together in his cottage, he expressed something of the kind to Hodge and Giles. They were very much surprised.

"She is a good, true-hearted maiden," he added. "I don't for a moment mean that she has any selfish motives for her attentions to our godfather."

"That's to say you don't suspect her of trying to supplant us in his favour, as to inheriting whatever he has to leave?" said Hodge. There was some suspicion in his tone, much as he admired Ysenda.

"One never knows," added Giles. "She may have no thought of the kind—why should she? She is rich already—all the same, Uncle Peter may make her his heir, without her being to blame."

"I think it most unlikely," replied Michael. "No such idea was in my mind. Besides," he went on, growing rather indignant, "Ysenda is just the girl to put a stop to anything unfair. She is as kind and generous as a woman can be. We all know of her goodness in any case of poverty or distress that she hears of. No, all I meant was that she may know something of Uncle Peter's dealings with the 'good people'; she is just the sort of sweet maiden that the fairies love."

"Maybe," said Giles, who was not very ready to believe in anything he could not see with his own eyes, "maybe she herself is the only fairy in the matter. Maybe she provides the feast."

"Impossible," said Hodge and Mike, and so it was.

"Anyway," persisted Giles, "I daresay it's she who tells him of the misfortunes and accidents he gets to know of so quickly."

"On the contrary," replied Michael, "she has told me herself that it has often been Uncle Peter who has been her informant in such matters, and that he has employed her to carry assistance to the sufferers. There was that great fire last winter at Olden Wood. She happened to see him the very same morning while it was still blazing, five miles off, and no one hereabouts knew of it! And the letter from over the sea telling of Widow Martha's son's death, reducing her to poverty, for he'd been a good son, always sending her money. Why," Mike went on very solemnly, "he knew what was in that letter before it had reached Martha's hands!"

There was no reply to this. Even Giles was much impressed, and all three started when just at that moment there came a tap at the door, for it was getting late, and being far on in the autumn the evening grew dark very early.

The cousins looked at each other half timorously, for even the bravest of men—and they were by no means cowards—may be momentarily frightened by anything uncanny.

The tap was repeated.

Michael got up and opened the door cautiously. What he expected to see he could not have said, but a witch astride on a gander, or a goblin with scarlet ears as big as a donkey's and a long tail, would scarcely have surprised him!

Instead—how different!—there stood two small figures—children evidently, and as a very plaintive little voice reached him, he threw open the door more widely, so that the light from within fell on the new-comers, and he perceived that they were a boy and girl, apparently about twelve or fourteen years old, poorly though decently clad, each carrying a bundle, and with pale, travel-tired faces.

"Please," said the voice—it was the boy's, the elder of the two—"oh please can you tell me if Dame Martha Swann lives here or near here?"

Michael started again. It was of this very dame he had just been speaking. Were these two of the "good people" in disguise, come to visit him for some mysterious reason? He took care to answer very politely.

"Not here, but not so very far off," he replied, and the gentleness of his tone encouraged the child to ask further. "Then can you show us the road there? We are dreadfully tired—at least my little sister is, and we have lost our way somehow."

As the boy went on speaking, Michael's misgivings left him. The two were plainly ordinary human beings, though something in the child's voice or accent showed that they did not belong to this part of the world.

"Come in and rest yourselves for a while," said Mike. "Warm yourselves too. It is a chilly evening."

"Oh thank you," was the reply, as the two eagerly accepted his invitation. He led them towards the fire and drew forward seats, while Hodge and Giles, their pipes in their hands, stared in surprise.

"Whom have we here?" exclaimed Hodge; his tone sounded suspicious, and Giles too hung back a little.

"How should I know?" said Michael sharply. "You see as much as I. Whoever they are and wherever from, it's surely the least one can do to let them rest for a few minutes. No doubt they can explain about themselves. You were asking for old Dame Martha, my boy?" he went on.

"Yes, yes," was the ready reply, "we are her grandchildren. My name is Paul—Paul Swann, like father," his voice shook, "and——"

"I'm Mattie," said the girl, speaking for the first time. "That's for 'Martha,' like granny. Oh how I wish this was her house! I'm so tired."

"Poor little maid," said Michael kindly. "Well it's not so far to your granny's, and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll carry you there myself. But first you must have a bite of bread and a drink of milk. I'll have it ready in a minute," and he turned to the cupboard, which was almost as bare as Mother Hubbard's, for the bread and milk were all there was for his own breakfast!

The children were famishing. The food disappeared in a twinkling. Then the boy explained that they had come all across the sea to take refuge with their grandmother in their desolation since their father's death, for their mother had died five years ago. Some kindly disposed people had seen them on board the ship, and given them a little money to carry them the rest of the way on landing. But the very first night ashore some wicked person had stolen it, so there was nothing for it but to come on, on foot. It was really no very great distance, not more than eight to ten miles from the seaport, but they were strangers in a strange land, almost afraid to ask their way, and they had probably wandered astray. This was their pitiful story.

But already Michael's kindness had revived them, and they stood up, eager to get to the only home they had now a chance of. The cousins looked at each other. What was in store for the poor things? Their grandmother, a loving soul, would welcome them no doubt, and share with them all she had. But that "all" was really nothing. She was feeble and crippled with rheumatism. But for old Peter and his friend Ysenda, she would before this have risked dying of starvation.

However—"Cheer up," said Michael, as he hoisted little Mattie on to his shoulder, Paul loading himself with the bundles. "Cheer up. We'll be at the good dame's in no time. Giles," he went on, for Hodge was looking sulky and disapproving, "Giles, you might do worse than help the boy—or at least bring a bundle of my faggots and come with us. Martha's fire will be none too big."

Giles started forward, half shamed into doing his part—and Hodge, who was, after all, more stupid than bad-hearted, drew out of his pocket two small copper coins, which he handed to Paul.

"Tell your granny," he said, "that's to help to get you some milk for breakfast from the farm near by her cottage."

Paul smiled gratefully and thanked him.

Then they set off—Hodge walking with them a part of the way, till he reached the turning to his own home.

The poor dame was still up—sitting by the tiny fire in her kitchen, grudging to lose any of its welcome warmth, when Michael—leaving the others at the door—stepped in warily with a cheerful "good evening," so as not to terrify the lonely old woman.

Mingled indeed were her feelings, as you can imagine. Loving delight as she clasped the little travellers in her trembling arms, though even in that first moment the dire misgiving seized her as to how they were to be fed and clothed! So pathetic are often the greatest joys of the very poor.

But the children for the moment had no such fears.

"Oh granny, granny," cried the little girl, "it is so sweet, so lovely to have found you," and Paul turned away to hide the tears which he thought himself too big a boy to give way to.

They were near Michael's own eyes, and even Giles had a lump in his throat as he set to work to build up the fire with the bundle of his cousin's faggots.

The dame looked about her anxiously.

"My darlings, you must be hungry," she was beginning, but the little new-comers interrupted her.

"No, no," they said, with the quick thoughtfulness of the children of their class, "this kind man," pointing to Michael, "gave us supper at his house. We only want to go to bed, and it will be so beautiful to wake in the morning and to find we are with our own granny."

"And I have money to get some more bread and milk for breakfast," added Paul, jingling the two coppers in his pocket, "so that will be all right."

With the help of the two young men, a bed was soon made up for the boy on the old kitchen settle, as there was room for little Mattie beside the dame. Everything in the cottage was scrupulously clean, for to have had it otherwise would have broken Dame Martha's heart, and by the handy way that the children moved about, tired though they were, she was pleased to see that they had been well and carefully brought up. So for the moment she tried to dismiss her anxiety.

But when the cousins said good-night and set off on their way home Michael's heart felt heavy for the little family.

"Good Lord!" he murmured, "if only I were rich!"

"What then?" asked Giles. "You'd be for taking the lot of them on your shoulders, I suppose. Well, as things are, you can't do so. Of course they must all go to the workhouse, though to-night it would have been cruel to hint at such a thing."

Michael said nothing, but he had some hope that this might be avoided.

That very day—I have said it was a Saturday—a long conversation had taken place at old Peter's between himself and his favourite Ysenda.

She had looked in as she often did, and was startled and distressed to find him far from well.

"Yes," he said, in answer to her kindly enquiries, "yes, my dear young friend, I am failing fast. You must not grieve about it—the thought of dying is very familiar to me and far from unwelcome. But there is something I wish to consult you about. You know my secret. You know the only legacy I can leave behind me. It is as to this that I want to know your opinion, for you have a good sound judgment as well as a kind heart. To me myself the greatest pleasure would be to bequeath my magic gift to you, my dear Ysenda."

But the girl, as he had in his heart expected, shook her head.

"No, dear Peter," she replied. "There are those nearer to you than I, and more in need of help. Besides—I know the secret; the fulfilling its conditions would therefore be no test of my deserving its benefits. Nor do I stand in want of them. No—dear friend—if, as you kindly say, you consider my advice worth attending to, I would propose this. Bequeath the enchanted table to whichever of your three nephews discovers the inner spell which governs it. In this there will be nothing unfair. You can teach them the magic words, and then inform them that the further secret must be sought and found by themselves—or by himself. Hodge is the eldest—let him have the first trial, then Giles, and lastly Michael."

"And if—supposing Hodge succeeds?" said Peter with a rather curious enquiry in his tone.

Ysenda's face flushed a little.

"Well then, it would be all right. He would continue to use his power as it should be used."

"And Giles?"

"In the same way, of course," she replied.

"But—if both failed, and Mike came to have his try at it?"

Ysenda raised her pretty head with a gesture of pride.

"Then," she replied, "it would most certainly be all right. As to Michael's good heart I have no misgiving whatever. Quite independently of the spell, no sooner would he have it in his power to show kindness to any one in need of it than he would be eager to do so."

"I agree with you," said her old friend; and to himself he added, "I suspected as much. Ah well, they are worthy of each other, and I trust that all will prosper with them."

Then after a moment's silence he went on again:

"I will do as you advise, my child. To-morrow I will announce my intention, and take the three into my confidence as far as is necessary. Then when my own summons comes I shall feel that I have acted for the best—fairly by all, though my own wishes are with that good young fellow, Michael."

Ysenda rose to go.

"You will come again soon?" said the old man. "The sands are running out quickly, I feel, and I am not likely to be mistaken."

"Dear Peter," whispered the young girl, and the tears rose to her eyes.

"Bless you, my child," laying his hand on her shoulder. Then just as she was turning away, a curious, listening expression crept over his face. "Yes, yes," he murmured, as if in reply to some inaudible voice, "yes."

Ysenda felt a little frightened, and of this Peter seemed at once aware. He patted her again.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, with a smile. "I have no dealings with the black arts. But certain things are communicated to me in ways that I must not reveal. And just now—I am glad you were still here. Trouble, or rather perplexity—for the trouble is mingled with joy—is at hand for our good old friend Dame Martha. Will you go to see her to-morrow, Ysenda, and learn about it?"

"I was already intending to enquire how she is," said the girl. "I will certainly not fail to see her, and I will do all I can to help her, you may be sure."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Peter. "Good-night, my child."

Many things passed through Ysenda's mind as she walked slowly home. She had no mother, and her father, though devoted to her, his only child, was a hard man. He thought her fanciful and romantic, as she had on several occasions refused to marry to please him. For his great idea was that her husband should be a wealthy man.

"He must at least show on his side as handsome a sum as will be the dowry I give you," he had often repeated. But so far, none of the suitors that in this respect were approved of by the father had found favour in his daughter's eyes, so that he began to think the girl had determined against marrying at all, little suspecting the love that had already crept into her sweet heart.

"Ah, well," he thought to himself, "better live single than make a poor choice of some pauper who would squander her fortune, though for that matter, unless I look to it, she will be for giving it all away in charity once the breath's out of my body. Ysenda is too 'giving' by half."

And with this idea, rich though he was, the father kept the girl but slenderly supplied with money. She had to account to him for every farthing, and only by denying herself many little things she had naturally a right to expect, was she able to help her poorer neighbours. And without old Peter's contributions, though in cash he had not much to give, still less would it have been possible for her to assist those in need.

"How I shall miss him!" she said to herself. "For some reasons I could wish he had bequeathed the magic table to me—to what advantage I could have used it! But it would not have been fair or right. Oh if only Michael wins it! Somehow——" and vague hopes began to flutter in her heart, for that the young fellow—no less than the others, in their own way—adored her, she could not doubt. "It might make things different," she thought. But then she resolutely put the idea away. "No, no, I must not dwell on it. It is almost as if I were looking forward to dear old Peter's death. And oh, by the bye, I must not forget to go to see old Martha Swann to-morrow. I wonder what new trouble has befallen her—trouble mingled with joy, he said, and of course I know, as no one else knows, that Peter is in touch with the good people; the really good fairies, they must be, for he would have no dealings with mischievous, spiteful imps."

Now I must tell you what happened the next day—the eventful Sunday on which the old man felt that the time had come for his strange secret to be revealed to his three godsons.

They were there in good time as usual, waiting outside for the opening of the door and their host's appearing.

Hodge, as was his way, was very hungry and in a hurry to set to work at the excellent dinner which no doubt awaited them. Giles too agreed with him that under the circumstances time passed far too slowly. Michael, who of the three had every reason for more than ordinary hunger, as he had not tasted food since his early supper the day before, his breakfast, as you will remember, having been otherwise disposed of—poor Michael said nothing. His thoughts were running on the two little waifs that he had escorted to their grandmother, and not only on them and Dame Martha, but on kind Ysenda. For, coming out of church, she had whispered to him that she feared their old friend was in trouble. "I am going to her at once," she said, and ran off before the young man had time to reply.

"How did she know?" Michael wondered. "Perhaps through Uncle Peter's queer ways. However, she'll look after the poor things for a day or two, though it isn't very much that even Ysenda, bless her, can do, rich though her father is," for the farmer's peculiarities were no secret.

So Michael had plenty to think of, as well as of being hungry, while standing with his cousins outside the old man's cottage.

And after all, they were kept waiting a shorter time than usual. It still wanted some minutes to the half-hour after noon when the door opened and their uncle beckoned to them to enter.

Even as they did so, they felt that things were not quite the same as on former occasions. To begin with, the dinner was not ready; far from it, the table was not even to be seen!

Hodge's face fell, so did Giles's, as the same misgiving seized them.

"Supposing he's not going to give us any dinner at all," they thought. "Maybe he's been too feeble to see to it."

For a glance showed them that their host had sadly changed, even in a week. His face was as white as his hair, and as he sank into his old armchair he almost looked as if he was going to faint. Michael sprang forward.

"Dear uncle," he cried, and you may be sure that the fear of losing his dinner had no place in his thoughts, "dear uncle, you are ill—suffering. Will you let me run for the doctor?"

But even as the young man spoke, a little colour returned to Peter's cheeks and he smiled.

"No, no, my boy," he said, and his voice was very gentle, "no need for doctors. I can manage for myself. It was just a turn, but I shall be better again now for a bit, though not for long. I have been anxious to see you all to-day, for I misdoubt me if it is not the last time——" Michael gave a little exclamation of distress, and the other two looked very grave. "I am very old, you know, my dear nephews, and tired. I shall be glad to rest. But first I have something to tell you. I have no money to leave behind me, and but few little possessions, but I have a secret, and the time has now come for me to reveal it to you three, my only living relations."

He stopped for a moment and drank a little water, which seemed to revive him.

"The country-folk, you know, call me a wizard," he went on. "Well—well—it does me no harm! I have learnt some strange things—I have wandered some little way into regions where few mortals are allowed to tread; I have had some dealings with beings of another kind of life than ours; in some ways I have been of use to the 'good people,' as they are called, and they to me. But such knowledge as I have acquired I can truly declare I have only used for the advantage of my fellows. My learning of this sort will pass away with me—I can leave behind me none of my secrets save one, and this—this spell I am now about to reveal to you three."

He stopped again. The eyes of the young men were fixed upon him in breathless eagerness. What were they about to hear? But some instinct kept them all silent. Time enough for thanks, thought Hodge and Giles, when they knew what there was to thank for. And as for Michael, his curiosity was kept back by the real sorrow he felt at the idea of the old man's approaching death.

Peter went on again:

"As children," he said, "I daresay you heard many of the old fairy tales handed down for generations—tales to be found in one shape or another all the world over, it seems to me. So it often struck me that for some of them, at least, there must be a foundation of truth at bottom, and I set myself to use my little knowledge of these matters to discover it. I failed in several cases—I was wanting in certain qualifications. But as to one so-called legend I succeeded. Do you remember the old tale of the grateful gnome who taught his human benefactor how to make sure of a good dinner, by using a certain spell?"

Hodge pricked up his ears at the word "dinner." So did Giles, but though they had some vague memory of the well-known story, they were half afraid to say so, for fear of Peter's cross-questioning them. But Michael answered at once, for he had always loved fairy stories, that he remembered the one of the magic table quite distinctly.

"Well, then," said the old man, "I am going to show you that it was true, for the spell by which the feast was made to appear still exists. Now, all of you, listen carefully to my words. I may repeat them thrice, which will enable you to learn them perfectly, but after the third time you must trust to your memory."

Then sitting up erect on his chair, he recited, slowly and distinctly thrice, as he had said, these words:

and after a moment's silence, when he had ended the incantation, he drew out a tiny silver bell—a mere toy of a thing—and rang it sharply.

Then there reached the ears of the astonished guests a whirring sound as if of invisible wheels revolving quickly. It was faint at first, but gradually seemed to come nearer, or rather, I should say, to rise upwards. It was of course the same sound which Michael had heard that Sunday, when he had unwittingly approached too near the cottage before the appointed time. And suddenly, with a sort of swing as of well-oiled doors opening swiftly, the flooring drew apart, and before the watchers could see how or whence it came, there stood in its accustomed place, in the centre of the kitchen, the table they all knew so well, bearing on its snow-white cover the tempting savoury dishes, neatly arranged and steaming hot. Enough truly, so tempting did they look, so excellently did they smell, to make even the least greedily disposed person's mouth water.

For a minute or two the young men were too astounded to speak. Then Peter smiled.

"Do not look so startled," he said reassuringly. "The dinner is what you have enjoyed many and many a time, and it has been sent in the same way. Have no misgivings. Draw round it, and make a hearty meal."

They did so with many murmurs of surprise and admiration; and for once, perhaps, it may be of interest to know of what the dinner consisted. At one end was a roast capon, cooked to perfection, at the other a ham, of so delicate a colour and flavour that it must surely have belonged to a fairy pig! Then there were potatoes, so white and floury that I feel convinced they must have been whisked over from Ireland, and delicious green sprouts of the kind that I, as a child, and I daresay many other children with me, used always to call "fairy cabbages," so exactly like miniatures of the large ordinary kind are they. And as side dishes, which apparently were still in fashion in the land of the gnomes or brownies, stood fruit pies whose pastry melted in your mouth, so light and flaky was it. And last, not least, a crystal bowl filled with cream, which surely must have come from Devon or Cornwall, or the places which match those in fairyland!

And in spite of their wonder and astonishment the three guests did justice to the feast, I assure you, for they were all very hungry.

Their host watched them with satisfaction, though eating but little himself. And when they had finished and turned to him, as was their custom, to thank him for their excellent repast, he smiled kindly.

"Now," he said, "you shall see the end of the matter."

He rang the bell, and in a moment or two the whirring noise was heard, the floor gently opened and the table descended, then the aperture closed and all was as it had been when the three entered the cottage. And again they gazed in amazement, for on former occasions they had bidden Peter good-bye and taken leave, with the table and the remains of the meal still standing in the kitchen.

"Yes," said the old man. "I do not wonder at your surprise. And now I must explain further. It is in my power to bequeath my secret to one of you. In fact I have told a part of the spell to you all. But a part only. There is a condition attached to its acting successfully which I cannot and must not tell you. The very fact of my doing so would destroy the whole. You shall each have a fair chance. You, Hodge, as the eldest must have the first. Here is the magic bell," and he handed him the pretty toy as he spoke. "Keep it safely, and use it as you have seen me do, after repeating the verse I have taught you. Next Sunday at the same hour; that is the appointed time. But—remember there is a condition which you must fulfil; consider the matter well in your own mind; ponder it during the next few days. If you succeed, well and good; if not, you must pass on the bell to Giles, that he may have his chance. And if he fails, it will be for Michael. There must be no disputes about it—to do you justice I do not fear that there will be, for I have watched you all, and have been pleased to see that you lived in amity, without jealousy or ill-will. And I have treated you all with perfect fairness."

"You have indeed," said all the three together, adding, "and we shall not forget it. Fair play's a jewel."

"But," said Michael anxiously, "you speak of next Sunday, dear uncle. May we not meet here again as usual while you are still with us?"

The old man laid his withered hand kindly on the young fellow's shoulder.

"I shall not be here next Sunday, my boy," he said, "and for this you must not grieve. Now farewell to you all."

And realising that he wished to be alone, they wrung his hand and went quietly away.

And before the sun sank on the following evening the old man had gone, as he had predicted.

The three young men all felt saddened by their loss—Michael especially, the more so when he saw Ysenda dissolved in tears, at the simple little funeral. How he longed to have a right to comfort her!

Hodge and Giles, though not without good feeling and gratitude to their old uncle, were too excited at the prospect of trying to benefit by his strange legacy, to give very much thought to mourning him.

"It's my turn first," said Hodge, "and I mean to succeed. But I'm not going to talk about it. Just you, Giles, and you, Mike, leave me alone. I have my own ideas."

"All right," said Giles, "I'm not going to meddle."

"And as for me," said Michael, "I've really scarce given the matter a thought."

Both noticed, however, that Hodge said nothing about their joining him on Sunday at the usual hour, as they had naturally expected. The loss of the one really good meal they had till now been sure of, was of consequence to them, though they were not greedy. To Mike, just at present, it mattered the most, for the poor fellow was denying himself in every way he could, so as to help Dame Martha with her grandchildren. Ysenda was doing her utmost, but just now her father was in a far from amiable humour, as she had again refused to accept a wealthy suitor, and to punish her the farmer was doling out even less money than his wont. So several people whom this little story concerns were in rather low spirits—Paul and Mattie less so than their elders, for though it was all their grandmother could do to give them the plainest of food and by no means very much of that, her love made up for her poverty, and they were at an age when hopefulness is easy.

Well—the days passed till came the Sunday on which Hodge was to try the working of the spell. He was up with the dawn, and instead of going to church as usual, spent the morning in scrubbing and scouring, till his kitchen shone like a new pin. For this was the idea that had come to him as the condition of success. Perfect cleanness! Peter's cottage had always been a marvel of this; it was whispered that the brownies or some mysterious beings of the kind acted as his housemaids, and perhaps it was so, for feeble and stiff as he was, it seemed impossible that he himself could have kept the boards so spotless, the stove so polished, the few pots and pans, which were of antique copper, so shining. And for all we know, the saying was a true one.

Now Hodge was naturally a bit lazy, and his house by no means as well cared for as it might have been, and knowing this, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he hit upon this solution of the riddle. But he was not of course absolutely certain that it was correct, and for this reason, regardless of the probable disappointment to his companions, he let them understand that he did not expect them to be his guests.

"Another time I may invite them," he said to himself, "but best not begin by making a rule of it. Besides, if I fail I don't want them to sit here laughing at me. Not that there's much fear. The good people can't but be pleased with the way I've scrubbed and tidied. And I don't object to dining alone. I feel as if I could eat a whole capon to myself, not to speak of the other toothsome things! And after dinner I'll be glad of a rest, for working as hard as I've been doing, makes one ache."

He tidied up himself as well as his room, and then sat down to wait, the little bell in his hand. Twelve o'clock, a quarter past, then the half-hour, and at the moment, Hodge, having locked the door and closed the shutters for fear of intrusion or interruption, began solemnly to recite the incantation, which he had got well by heart, and as he uttered the last words "prithee haste" he lifted the silver toy and rang it vigorously, then sat listening with intensity.

For a moment or two he fancied he heard the whirring sound drawing near, but no—it was the buzzing in his head from his nervousness, for, stolid as he was, he was strung up with mingled hopes and fears. He rang again—no result; again he repeated the lines, half hoping he had not been quite accurate. No—they were as he had written them down and as he had compared them with the copies taken by his cousins. All was correct. But—nothing happened! And Hodge, slow and unemotional though he was, felt ready to shed tears!

Then he remembered that he was very hungry, and there was nothing but a crust of dry bread and a scrap of cheese in the house, and on Sundays there was no means of getting anything else. He had to be content, therefore, and to make the best of his scanty fare, and then he lay down on his bed and went to sleep and slept till it was dark, consoling himself with the thought that as he had failed there was not much chance of either of the others succeeding, and when he awoke, being on the whole a good-natured sort of fellow, he put his pride in his pocket and set off for Giles's, inspired partly, I dare say, by the hope of getting something to eat!

He found his two cousins supping together. Their fare was not luxurious nor abundant, but as he handed the bell to Giles and they saw his downcast face they at once understood the state of things and invited him to join them. He was glad enough to do so, and told them his story.

"And now, Giles," he ended, "it's your turn. Though what you can do to please the good people more than I did, I can't think."

"I'll tell you where you went wrong," said Giles. "You should have invited us too! There's something in numbers, you know—especially in the number three. And we've always been together at the dinner. Anyway, I now ask you two to be here next Sunday at the usual time to see me try my luck."

"Thank you," said Hodge rather sheepishly.

"Thank you," repeated Michael half absently, for his thoughts were running on other things. Ysenda's face had looked very sad in church that morning, and he fancied that Dame Martha and her charges were growing thinner and paler steadily.

"I'm certain they haven't enough to eat," he thought. "Maybe Giles will help a bit, if he succeeds," but in his heart he doubted if either Giles or he himself would fare better than Hodge had done.

"Yet," he said to himself, "Uncle Peter wasn't the sort to play a trick on us. And we saw the magic with our own eyes! But I scarce dare hope that we'll find the secret."

Sunday—the second Sunday—arrived in due time, and the three cousins met as arranged at Giles's cottage. Hodge was feeling of two minds. In one way he did not want Giles to succeed when he had failed; on the other hand, he greatly missed the excellent weekly dinner, and said to himself that after all it would be better to enjoy it at his cousin's than not to get it at all.

Giles was awaiting them at his door, the little bell in his hand.

"Come along in," he said. "Uncle Peter used to keep his guests waiting outside till it was all ready, but as we all saw the whole of it that last day, I don't see that I need start it all alone. It makes one a bit shaky and nervous, you see."

So Hodge and Mike, by no means unwillingly, followed him into the kitchen. Hodge was as usual very hungry, and again rather excited in hopes of a good dinner. Michael seemed depressed. He didn't care whether he was hungry or not; he was far from sanguine as to success for either Giles or himself; he missed his old uncle, and was rather in low spirits all round. Still of course he had no thought of refusing to take part in Giles's effort.

The three seated themselves, leaving the space for the table's hoped-for appearance. Giles held the bell in his hand, every now and then glancing at the old clock in the corner, of which he was the happy possessor.

"It doesn't keep such very good time," he said in a low voice, "but I set it right this morning, so it can't be more than a moment or two slow."

And then they waited till the long hand approached and slightly passed the twenty-nine minutes to the fateful half-hour.

Giles began to recite the charm, the two others listening. He said it quite correctly, then slowly raising the bell he rang it clearly. Utter silence. Then—yes—the first whirring was heard, gradually growing louder as it went on, till with the same sort of spring or swing the floor opened and up came the table, the mysterious space closing again at once.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Giles, starting up, and even Michael's heart beat faster with excitement. But Hodge, whose one thought was his dinner, Hodge's red face grew paler and his expression darkened.

"Not so fast," he said; "not much hurrahing about it." And then the others saw what his greedy eyes had at once perceived. The table was, as ever, covered with a spotless cloth—three places were laid for, as far as plates and knives were concerned, but on each lay a small loaf of black or brown bread and a wedge of cheese. That was all! No end dishes, no side ones—no centre with fruit—nothing but the plain everyday luncheon they were used to when at work in the fields, and none too much of it either, and as Hodge added, muttering, "not even a glass of beer"!

The three looked at each other. Giles and Mike began to laugh, as much at Hodge's angry disgust as at the thing itself.

"You've not hit it off, after all," said Michael to his host. "Still, anything's better than nothing. I vote that we eat what there is," and he cut a slice off his loaf. The others—Hodge very gloomily—did the same and began to eat. The provisions were good of their kind.

"I wonder what I did wrong, or didn't do right," said Giles. "At worst, Hodge, I've got on better than you, and next Sunday maybe Michael will manage best of all. Surely you'll get some hot potatoes at least, Mike?"

"I don't think I'm going to try at all," said the youngest of the cousins.

"It's been a mean sort of lega——" began Hodge.

But before he finished the word, Michael stopped him. "You mustn't speak against Uncle Peter," he said. "He did his best for us, of that I'm sure. The spell was not of his making. He had no power over it. He taught us all he could. Strikes me we're not good enough to succeed, somehow. Think what he was! So contented and patient, and so unselfish! Giving away of the little he had, keeping scarce anything for himself."

"He was always sure of a good Sunday dinner, anyway," grumbled Hodge.

"And did he keep even that to himself?" queried Michael.

By this time the table was cleared of the little it had offered. Giles stood up and held out the bell.

"We may as well send it back again," he said, ringing, as he spoke, and in a few moments the whole had disappeared as they had seen it do that last Sunday at old Peter's.

Hodge walked off without speaking. Giles turned to Michael—he was still holding the little bell.

"Are you in earnest, Mike," he asked, "about giving up your try? If so, what's to be done with this?"

He waved the pretty thing in his hand as he spoke. Strange to say, it gave out no sound. The cousins looked at it curiously. The queer incident impressed them afresh, and Michael hesitated in his reply.

"There is no tricking of us in it," he murmured. Then he turned to Giles.

"You may as well give it to me," he said. "I'll think it over and let you know before next Sunday—and Hodge too, for that matter."

A new idea had struck him and his face brightened. He would consult Ysenda and abide by her advice, and in the meantime he carefully hid away the silver bell.

For two or three days to come he had no opportunity of meeting the farmer's pretty daughter. But one evening when he had looked in at Dame Martha's to see how she and the orphans were getting on, he met Ysenda, on her way thither. She was carrying a basket with what provisions she had got leave to bring them. For she was too honest to give away anything belonging to her father without his permission. She stopped at once, on seeing Mike, who doffed his hat.

"Good evening," she said, "I am——" but he interrupted her. "Let me carry that for you. It is heavy," he began, taking hold of the handle.

"I could wish it were heavier," she said, with a rather pitiful smile. "I do what I can for the good dame and those dear children, but it isn't much."

"It's more than I do," said Michael regretfully.

"Don't say that," she replied eagerly. "You give all you have to give. But what irks me is the knowing I should be able to do all needed for the poor things, if only—my father——" she stopped short. "How are they?" she went on again. "You have been there, I make sure?"

Michael blushed.

"They're fairly well," he said. "It was only a bundle of fire-wood, and, and—some windfall apples I found—nothing to speak of. The boy—Paul—has had a bit of work this week. I spoke to our master for him, but it's a slack time of year, you see."

Ysenda nodded. Michael had turned and was retracing his steps with her. For a moment or two neither spoke. Then suddenly the young man looked at her, with a grave face.

"Ysenda," he said, "I want your advice," and he went on hurriedly to relate to her the experiences of the last two Sundays in his cousins' cottages. She listened attentively, but somewhat to his perplexity she seemed in no way surprised or discouraged by his story, for when he ended by saying, "Don't you think I'd best give it up? It doesn't seem meant for the like of us. Uncle Peter didn't understand maybe that we're not the same as him—we're too thick-skulled and dull, and not full of benevolence and charity as he was. The good people don't care to bestow their benefits on common rough fellows like us," she replied quietly:

"No, Michael, I don't agree with you. You've got wrong notions. There's a condition attached to the spell, which must be discovered by yourself. Uncle Peter told you this plainly. He said nothing about success depending on your being very clever, or learned in the ways he was, and he knew none of you were. He knew the condition was one quite possible for you to fulfil, but it had to be your own doing. Well—Hodge and Giles have failed—Giles less than Hodge——"

"Because he wasn't such a selfish pig as Hodge," Michael interrupted, "still——"

Ysenda smiled.

"Still," she went on, "a meal of bread and cheese isn't worth the trouble. I agree with you. But I don't see why you should not succeed, though the others have failed."

"I don't know why I should!" exclaimed he. "I can think of nothing new to try, and it worries me. I keep dreaming about it night and day, till I want to throw it over and have done with it. I had a plan——" but he hesitated.

"Tell me your plan," she urged.

"It was this. I thought maybe Hodge and Giles would forget the right words or miss the time or do something stupid that I could see and guard against when my turn came, and if so I had planned how I'd invite the poor dame and her children to the Sunday feast—I'd have just bid them come a few minutes before the time, the way uncle did with us—and when I'd got it all ready—steaming hot and all beautiful and tempting, I'd throw open the door and show them in. My! just to think of it," and his blue eyes danced with pleasure.

So did Ysenda's pretty grey ones, but she kept her self-control.

"Well," she said gently, "why shouldn't you carry out your plan?"

"Ysenda!" exclaimed Michael, "how could I risk it after the failure of the others? Supposing I had as good luck as Giles—and how can I be sure of even that?—a nice feast it would be to invite the poor things to—a lump of bread and a wedge of cheese! I'd be ashamed past words."

"You'd have a nice, dainty table, and no doubt, if the good people knew how many guests you'd asked, they'd lay places for them all, as has always been the case so far as I understand," said Ysenda. "I'll tell you what I'd do—I'll help you all I can—let's have some simple fare ready to fall back upon if need be. I'm sure I can manage a joint of cold meat and some potatoes, which you can roast in readiness. Then when you invite Dame Martha and the children just say it's really to take 'pot-luck' with you, so they won't expect over much."

Michael's face brightened.

"Thank you, Ysenda," he said, "thank you a thousand times. You've cheered me greatly, and made me think I'd be a coward not to take my chance. So I'll do as you say. Maybe I can get some vegetables or fruit to help out the dinner. And I'll just invite them in an off-hand sort of way, as you advise. A case of 'pot-luck' it certainly will be, if there never was one before!" and he laughed quite heartily.

That very evening he invited the dame and her grandchildren, and the first time he met Hodge and Giles he told them of these expected guests. Hodge was rather scornful about it, but Giles was more cheery.

"There's something in numbers," he maintained, "and three's a lucky one. You're the third to try, and you've invited three, besides us three ourselves. And—" he added, slapping his cousin on the shoulder as he spoke—"why yes, Mike, old fellow, fate's smiling on you and no mistake! Sunday's the third of the month, for sure!"

Michael's spirits rose still higher.

"Thank you, Giles," he said. "Well, we'll know before long. And you two mustn't fail me. If we don't meet at church, I'll depend on you soon after twelve o'clock on Sunday. Don't be late."

"No fear," said Giles, and Hodge, who was influenced by the others' hopefulness, felt his mouth already watering in anticipation of the excellent fare, echoed "no fear."

And some quarter of an hour or so before the usual time the three were settled in their places, Mike, bell in hand, all three pair of eyes glancing every minute or so at the clock. Now and then Michael's strayed to the cupboard in the corner, with a comfortable expression, for there, thanks to Ysenda and his own precautions, there was a good piece of meat and a few other odds and ends, sufficient for a plain though not very choice or ample meal.

At last—and how very slowly do the hands of a clock seem to move, if one is watching them!—at last the long needle approached the figure "six" at the bottom of the dial. Mike glanced at his companions.

"Now for it," he said, and for the life of him he could not prevent his voice shaking a little. "Here goes," and then pulling himself together he repeated the rhyme of incantation in a firm clear voice:

and after a moment's pause he lifted the silver toy and rang it cheerily.

Then—utter silence, save for Michael's drawing a deep breath or two—and—oh, joy! the whirring sounds began to be heard—no mistake about it, as they grew louder and nearer. Giles chuckled as he whispered, "Some good honest bread and cheese, hey, Mike?"

But he laughs best who wins!

Michael made no reply. In another moment came the soft swing of the invisible hinges—the floor opened, and up came the table. You could almost have fancied that it or its burdens were laughing with pleasure, for there was a merry clatter among the pretty china plates and dishes—so closely were they packed, so many were they, though as the whole finally emerged and settled down as it were, the table seemed to grow longer, till there was ample space for its six guests. Then the floor closed, and all was quiet.

Not so the three cousins.

"Hurrah in good earnest this time," cried Giles.

"Hush, my good fellow," said Michael, though his own face was by this time one broad smile "they'll have come, I'm sure. I must fetch them in," and he turned towards the door.

"Stay a moment," interrupted Hodge, who by this time was in high spirits, busily lifting the covers and examining the viands, "stay, till I tell you what there is for dinner. The giver of the feast should know the fare."

"Well, then," said Michael, "tell me quickly."

"There's a couple of ducks," replied Hodge, "stuffed, and roasted to a turn. How good they smell! And apple sauce and mashed potatoes, and a plum-pudding—to be sure Christmas is not so very far off now—and a whole pile of gingerbread snaps with whipped cream, and oranges galore, for dessert. My word, but the brownies keep first-rate cooks and caterers."

Michael had opened the door before his hungry friend had left off speaking, but he heard Hodge calling after him, "Stop, stop, I've forgotten the pork pie. Oh, my goodness, such a beauty!"

In another moment Michael had seized Dame Martha by the hand and was leading her into the cottage, followed by Paul and Mattie, looking very neat and clean in spite of their poor clothes, and in not a little excitement at this visit to the kind young man who had been their first friend in this strange land.

"I hope you've not been waiting long," said Mike.

"Oh no, thank you," the dame replied. "Just a very few minutes. We heard the church clock strike the half-hour as we drew near."

The door was wide open. Hodge and Giles greeted the new-comers heartily, Hodge adding that they'd better set to at once, before the dishes got cold. But though Dame Martha had very good manners by nature and even by habit, for in her better days she had been a much-respected upper servant in an excellent family, she could not restrain an exclamation of the greatest astonishment when she caught sight of the wonderful display of good things, and perceived their appetising odour.

"My dear boy—Michael!" she cried. "What extravagance is this? And you said it would be just a simple meal—'pot-luck' you called it, if I remember right?"

"And pot-luck it is," he replied, laughing. "There's no reason that I know of why pot-luck shouldn't be good fare, as I hope you will find our dinner to be."

There is no need to tell you how the feast was enjoyed. To begin with, it was flavoured not only with the "best sauce" of the old proverb—hunger—but also with the excellent additions of friendliness and gratitude and goodwill, and besides these even, there was a mysterious feeling of graciousness and prettiness over it all, which I am inclined to think must have been wafted with the viands from fairyland itself.

Never had the children had such a treat, and being modest and unselfish and far from greedy they enjoyed it all the more, nor was there any necessity for their grandmother to warn them not to eat too much.

Every one had enough—indeed Hodge's appetite seemed equal to that of two ordinary people—but yet when all had replied, "No thank you, nothing more," to Michael's hospitable offers, the dishes looked by no means empty, and though he made the children carry off a couple of oranges each, for a little Sunday treat at home, the pile of fruit scarcely appeared to have been touched. The thought did cross Michael's head that he wished he could keep the remains of the feast in his larder. But "No," he decided, "it would be greedy and might displease the fairies."

So when the dame and her grandchildren, with many and many expressions of gratitude, took their leave—though, by the bye, I must not forget to tell you that what brought the poor things' pleasure to the highest height was Michael's telling them that he would expect them at the same hour and in the same way the following Sunday, "and every Sunday, so long as my pot-luck continues to suit you," he added—well then, as soon as the three had left he re-entered the cottage with his cousins and carefully closing the door, rang the fairy bell for the invisible attendants to remove the table.

It disappeared as it had come, obediently to his summons. Then Hodge and Giles turned to him.

"The luck's with you, Mike, no doubt about it," they said, but without any ill-will, it must be allowed.

"Let's count it as belonging to us all," said hospitable Michael. "It shall be a fixed rule that you two dine with me every Sunday, same as to-day. And as long as the good people favour us as they've done this time, the least we can do is to let those who are less well off than we, share in our prosperity. I've a feeling that it's what old Uncle Peter would wish."

"That's why you mean to have the dame and her boy and girl every Sunday?" said Hodge. "Well, for my part I wouldn't take upon me to object. They're nice-mannered children, and the dame's an old friend. And there was enough and to spare."

Giles was looking very thoughtful.

"Yes, indeed," he exclaimed. "It's the right thing to do, and, as you say, it's following after our kind old godfather. I say, Mike," he went on, "maybe—I shouldn't be very surprised if that's how you've hit the nail on the head—eh, what do you think of that?"

Michael stared. Such an idea had never occurred to him, and indeed he scarcely understood what Giles meant. He thought of it afterwards, however.

Then his cousins left him, and he began to wish he could manage to see Ysenda to tell her the good news.

"She'll be as pleased as I am myself," he thought, "as pleased as if the good luck had been her own. And after all, it's thanks to her I persevered. By the bye, I wonder what I should do with that nice piece of meat she brought me, to fall back upon in case of need. I shouldn't keep it—maybe she'd like me to take it to the dame. I'll just have a look at it."

He turned to the cupboard—it was a sort of larder with a wired opening to the fresh air, which he had arranged himself, for he was very neat-handed. But when he drew back the door, he started with surprise. He could scarcely believe his eyes, and rubbed them hard to make sure he was not dreaming! For there, neatly placed on the shelves, was not only kind Ysenda's gift, but all the remains of the dinner—cold duck, pork pie, plum-pudding, sauces, vegetables, fruit! almost as tempting a sight as had been the viands on their first appearance, so daintily were they all arranged, so clean and bright were the china and glass.

Michael really laughed with pleasure.

"If only I could tell Ysenda," he said aloud.

The opportunity for so doing was coming nearer, though he knew it not.

On their way home Dame Martha and the children met the farmer and his daughter. Ysenda stopped to speak to them, and her father, who happened to be in a very good humour, as he had made excellent terms for the sale of his numerous stacks of hay, accosted the old woman kindly enough, though he had been one of those who had called her very foolish for accepting the charge of the penniless orphans.

"Well, dame," he began, "and how goes the world with you?" and almost before Ysenda heard the first words of her reply, the young girl guessed, what indeed she was already sure of, that Michael's trial of the magic spell had succeeded—so bright and happy looked the dame, so bursting with joyful excitement were Paul and Mattie.

"Oh, I am all of a tremble with thankfulness," replied Martha. "Such a feast as we have had! Never was there a kinder host than young Michael——"

"And, and," interrupted the children, forgetting their shyness, "we're to have dinner with him every Sunday—just fancy that! And see what we've got to take home for a treat," and they held out the beautiful oranges.

"I am pleased——" began Ysenda, but her father interrupted her.

"Young Michael, did you say," he inquired, turning to the dame, "young Michael! How comes it that he can afford to give feasts? I thought it was all he could do to keep himself—not to speak of feasting."

"And a real feast it was," said Martha, "roast ducks, and pies, and——"

"Plum-pudding, and these oranges and apples," the children went on. "And every Sunday, sir, every Sunday it's to be the same—dinner with him."

"Glad to hear it," said the farmer, rather shortly.

Then with a nod of farewell, and a sweet smile from his daughter, the two walked on.

For a few moments neither spoke. They were near their own home by this time. Suddenly the farmer exclaimed:

"Queer business this seems of young Michael's. He's a steady, hard-working fellow, but none too well-off. Maybe old Peter left him something after all—unbeknown to any one?"

He did not exactly ask the question of Ysenda, but he looked at her as he spoke. He knew how very friendly she had been with the old man. She smiled, and her pretty eyes lighted up.

"Maybe," was all she said.

But an hour or two later, when her father had finished smoking his Sunday afternoon pipe, he called her.

"Ysenda," he said,—he was sitting in the porch, for the day was mild for the time of year,—"Ysenda, I'm thinking about that young fellow—Michael."

"Yes, father?" she said questioningly.

"You know that old Thomas is leaving us." Thomas was the farmer's head man. "He's getting past work, and he's got some tidy savings put by. He won't be badly off. I'm not sorry. I'd like some one younger and sharper about the place, though I'd scarce have found it in my heart to dismiss him. But he wants to go. I've been casting about for a new man. I wonder how Michael would do."

"Was it what you heard this afternoon that's made you think of him?" the girl asked, straight-forwardly.

The farmer seemed a little taken aback.

"Well—not exactly. But you see," he replied, "if so be that old Peter did leave him something, well then, Peter was a wise man, a very wise man—it shows he thought highly of the young fellow, and if he was to come to me instead of Thomas, I'd as lief as not that he had a something of his own. It would give him a better position over the others, you see."

From her father's practical point of view, Ysenda did "see"; and when he went on to propose that they should stroll round by Michael's cottage for their evening walk, "just to have a look at things," she made no objection.

"We might say we heard of his kindness to the dame, and ask about her and how she's getting on," added the farmer.

So Michael, sitting ruminating by the fire, was not a little surprised when, on opening the door in answer to a knock, he was confronted by the two visitors.

"We thought we'd look in to—to congratulate you on your—your kindness to our old friend and her grandchildren," the farmer began, very amiably. "We've heard all about it from them, you must know."

Michael's sunburnt face had grown very red, first with the delight of seeing Ysenda, and then by the startling word "congratulate." For he knew that the secret confided to him and his cousins would be of no value if it were made known to others, so that Peter had trusted to them to keep it faithfully.

Ysenda seemed to guess his alarm, and with a smile and a whisper she reassured him, even before her father had finished speaking.

"It is all right," she said. "I know you have won"; and later on, she added, "It is what Peter hoped and wished for."

So nothing was wanting to Michael's satisfaction. He begged his visitors to honour him by staying to supper, and when the farmer saw the good fare so quickly and neatly laid before them, his opinion of Michael, needless to say, rose still higher, and before he took leave of the young man he had hinted at the proposal he was thinking of.

This was the beginning of a happy life for Mike. He became the farmer's right hand, and before long his son-in-law. Nor in his prosperity did Michael ever forget his old friends. Never a Sunday passed without his cousins and his poorer neighbours—Martha and her grandchildren—being his guests. Never, therefore, did the "good people" fail to respond to his summons.

And even before Ysenda became the hostess on these occasions, she felt that she might reveal to him the secret of the condition which in his generosity he had unconsciously fulfilled.

"Peter told me what it was," she said. "The magic feast is only bestowed on him who invites as his guests those poorer than himself. But had you known this, the charm would have been lost. Your motive was pure kindness—free from all selfishness, therefore you succeeded where Hodge and even Giles, good-natured though he is, failed!"

"Your motive was pure kindness—free from all selfishness, therefore you succeeded."

"All the same, sweetheart," said Michael, "I feel that I owe my happy fortune to you, as well as to dear old Peter and to the 'good people' themselves. May I always have a grateful heart and remember those whose lives are less favoured than mine."