Once upon a time, on a very hot summer's day, a girl stood waiting at the door of a small old-fashioned inn, beside a little heap of luggage. She was quite young, about sixteen, or seventeen at the most. Her face was sweet in expression, and would have been pretty if she had not looked so tired and anxious. She was quite alone and seemed shy and timid, for now and then, when some of the folk belonging to the place, passing in and out, wished her good-day, or made any friendly remark, she started and grew crimson even though she replied politely. And when after a time the landlady herself came to the door and asked the girl if she would not step inside and wait in the parlour, she answered hesitatingly that she thought she had better stay in the porch.

"I'm so afraid of missing the coach, or losing my seat in it," she said.

"No fear of that, Miss," said the comfortable-looking dame. "Your place is engaged, no doubt."

"Oh yes, I suppose so," the stranger replied. "My name is O'Beirne—Clodagh O'Beirne."

"That's all right," said the landlady; "I remember the name. The master—that's my husband—called out to the coachman last night that he must secure a place for you to-day. You'd written for it, no doubt?"

"Yes, the friends I stayed the night with—I only came over from Ireland yesterday—did so. It was their gig that brought me here just now, to catch the coach as it passed."

The landlady's good-humour seemed to cheer the girl a little; she began to look less frightened.

"You've come a long way," the older woman remarked. "Right across the sea, I take it?" The girl nodded, and looked as if she were going to cry. The landlady's curiosity was aroused. "And it's the first time you've left home, I daresay, and all by yourself too. It must feel strange-like."

"I wasn't alone till to-day. A friend came over with me," Clodagh replied. "And I shan't be alone long. I'm to meet a—a lady, a cousin, and we are to travel together."

"Ah indeed, that'll be much pleasanter for you," said her companion.

The young girl murmured something. But to herself she was saying that she was by no means sure of it. And after a little silence she went on, "I don't think I'd mind travelling alone—I don't mind anything very much now that I haven't any home—except," and she glanced at the heap of rather heterogeneous baggage, "except for all these things. I'm so afraid of losing half of them, and yet Biddy and I packed as neatly as ever we could. Biddy was grandmother's maid, and she stayed with me after dear granny died, till it was settled for me to go to live with my cousin and travel about with her."

"It'll be fine and amusing for you," said the landlady.

"I—I don't know," said Clodagh. "I'm not used to travelling, and I've not seen my cousin for a good while, and she may think me stupid."

"But she's a young lady, I suppose?" said her questioner.

"Not very. She's—oh, she's seven or eight years older than I, and she wants to travel all about till she finds a place to suit her. She's like me, except that she's rich. She's got no parents and can do as she likes."

Then suddenly it seemed to strike the young stranger that she was perhaps too communicative, and she grew rather pink. "I shouldn't perhaps——" she began, but the kind-hearted woman understood and interrupted. "It's me, Miss, that's in fault," she said. "I shouldn't make free to ask so many questions. But it went to my heart to see you standing there alone, so young and half-frightened like. I had a little daughter once—she'd have been not so much older than you if she'd lived——" She stopped for a moment, then she went on again: "Wouldn't you like a cup of tea now, Miss?" she said. "It's a time o' day I often has one, for we've no lie-abeds in our house, and it's a good while since we'd breakfast, and if you've come some distance you'll have been up betimes, I'd daresay."

Clodagh's face brightened.

"It's very kind of you," she said. "I would like it uncommonly. I couldn't eat any breakfast, I was so afraid of being too late. But—please tell me how much it will cost. I mustn't spend anything I can help, you see. Once I'm with Cousin Paulina, she will pay things like that for herself and me."

"Don't trouble your pretty head about it," said the goodwife. "We're well-to-do, my man and me, and neither chick nor kin to come after us, more's the pity—and—you do make me think of what my little maid would have been by now, Missy, if you'll pardon the liberty. Now just step inside—to my own parlour—the kettle's on the hob—you'll feel quite a different young lady once you've had a bit of breakfast, better late than never."

"And you promise me I won't miss the coach," said the girl, as she followed the kind woman into the little sitting-room behind the bar.

"No fear, no fear," replied her hostess, and as Clodagh sat down in the comfortable chintz-covered old armchair—the landlady's own, which she drew forward for the unexpected guest—the girl gave a sigh of content. "It is nice and cool in here," she said, "and I am so tired already and so thirsty. I wish I were going to stay here for a bit."

"Indeed and I wish it too, Miss, and it's our best we'd do to make you comfortable," said the dame, as she bustled about to make the tea, which she fetched from the kitchen hard by, and to cut some tempting slices of bread and butter. "But travelling's very pleasant, some folks say. There's an old lady not far from here—that's to say, her own home is—but she's for ever on the go. They do say as she's been all over the world, and old as she is, she seldom rests."

"Is she so very old?" asked Clodagh.

"No one knows," was the mysterious reply. "My husband's mother, and she's no chicken as you can fancy, remembers her as quite aged when she was young. But she never seems to get no older. Some say she was spirited away by the good folk when she was a baby and that she's got a fairy's life—indeed there's some that will have it she's not really one of us at all."

Clodagh, by this time refreshed by the tea, sat up eagerly. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you talk of the good folk. I thought it was only at home—in Ireland, I mean, that people still believed in them."

"Dear me, no," said her hostess, with a smile. "Maybe in the big towns you never hear of them nowadays, and no wonder. They can't abide noise and bustle and dirt. But in these parts, oh dear yes. I've heard tell of them all my life, I know, and of their tricksy ways. They can be the best of friends, but, my word! if they take offence they can worry one's life out."

Clodagh was listening with all her ears. Her eyes had grown brighter, and some colour had come into her cheeks, with the mere mention of fairy folk, so familiar to her since her infancy.

"Oh," she said with a little sigh, "what you say does make me wish still more that I could stay here a few days and get rested, and you would tell me stories, as my dear old nurse used to do."

"That I would," said the landlady, "and indeed I wish you could stay to hear them. Not that I've ever really come across the fairies—brownies and pixies, they call them in some parts—myself, nor even set eyes on one of them—unless indeed——" and here she stopped abruptly, lowering her voice.

"Unless what?" asked Clodagh. "Do tell me."

"Just what I was saying a minute ago," the dame went on. "Unless that strange old lady is one herself, as I'm more than half inclined to think by what I've heard tell of her."

"Then you've seen her?" questioned the girl eagerly.

The landlady nodded.

"Just seen her," she said. "Twice—no, I think three times, she's passed in the coach, and I've just said a word to her at the door. Once she asked for a glass of milk. 'Twas a very hot morning, like as it might be to-day."

"How I wish she might be in the coach this morning!" exclaimed the traveller, her eyes sparkling. "It would be so interesting, and if she knew I was Irish she might take a fancy to me, for the good people do love the Irish!" and at the idea the girl laughed merrily for the first time.

"Yes," agreed the dame, "indeed she might, my pretty young lady. But it's a long time since she's passed this way. One never knows where she is, or how she'll travel. Now and then she'll set off in her own coach and four, like any princess, and I've heard it whispered that she'll sometimes disappear from her home, no one knows how."

"Oh, a broomstick, maybe, or has she a pet gander?" laughed Clodagh.

But the landlady looked a little frightened.

"Hush, Missy, my dear," she whispered, "it doesn't do to——" Then she suddenly started. "I'm afraid that's the coach," she exclaimed, "and sorry I am to part with you, but if you're bound to go, we'd best be at the door ready."

Clodagh jumped up at once.

"And thank you a thousand times," she said, "for all your kindness. Yes, I must go. My cousin will be looking out for me. I've not seen her for five years," she added nervously. "Wish me good luck, my kind friend."

"That I will," said the dame heartily.

"You've cheered me greatly," said the girl, and in her impulsive Irish way she held up her sweet young face for a kiss.

The coach it was, sure enough. There was some trouble about getting Clodagh's rather complicated belongings on to it, it was already so piled up. But with difficulty all was at last disposed, outside and in, and thanks to the landlady nothing was left behind.

There were tears in the kind woman's eyes when at last it rumbled off, her young guest of an hour waving good-bye out of the window.

But it is Clodagh's adventures we have to follow. For a minute or two the bustle of getting her bags and boxes settled prevented her realising that there was already a passenger in the coach, and before looking round she felt obliged to lean out once again in a last farewell to her kind new friend. She was soon, however, recalled to the present.

"Who is there?" said a voice—a rather petulant one—from the corner. "Whatever is the matter? I was fast asleep till there was all this fuss! Oh!—" with an exclamation, "can it be you, Clodagh O'Beirne? I had no idea we were at Crossway Corner already?"

"Yes, indeed," Clodagh replied, "it is I. I didn't know it was you, Cousin Paulina. I wasn't sure, you see, if I would find you here, or if you would only meet me at the next stage. Lady Roseley wasn't certain from your letter which it would be."

"Humph," murmured Mistress Paulina. "Well, after all I decided that to avoid any mistake I'd get up for once by cock-crow, so as to start from Stracey. I hate getting up early, and I was fast asleep as you saw. Did Lady Roseley send some one with you, then, to see you off? You seemed to be nodding good-byes."

"No," said Clodagh. "That's to say only the old coachman who drove me over and left me at the inn. I was all right. No, it was only the landlady I was waving to. She was so kind, helping to carry out my things," and she glanced round at the various encumbrances. The place was certainly inconveniently crowded, and so Paulina, now wide-awake, seemed to think, as she took it all in, and that with evident annoyance.

"I must say, Clodagh," she remarked, "that you have a queer collection of luggage. I hope you will get rid of some of these bags and baskets before we start again. I don't deny that I travel with a fair amount myself," and indeed the coach had seemed well packed inside and out, before the younger girl's belongings had been added, "but a child like you can't need such an amount. You'll have to learn to be a clever traveller, my dear, if we're to get on together."

"I'm very sorry," said Clodagh apologetically. "You see, cousin, I never have left home before, and I didn't know how to manage. I'll do my best, and I hope I'll soon learn, for of course I shall pack for you as well as for myself. That I quite understand."

"Well, yes," said Paulina. "I can't go about with you and a maid. And as things have unfortunately turned out so sadly for you, it seemed to me you'd be better off with me than going among strangers. And on my side, I'm sick of maids with their airs and graces and vulgarities. I prefer to have a companion of my own class."

"Yes, thank you," Clodagh replied. "It was a very kind thought of yours, and I shall soon learn to manage well, I hope. To begin with, I think we might arrange all these things better," and she stood up and pulled about and pushed and lifted, till the narrow space looked more orderly, Paulina from her corner now and then directing and advising. She was a handsome young woman, with a by no means disagreeable expression. Indeed there was often a kindly light in her bright eyes, and gentle curves about her mouth. But she was self-willed and quick-tempered, "spoilt" in short, though generous and well-meaning, entirely unused to contradiction and impatient of any obstacles in the way of her wishes or fancies.

"Thank goodness," she ejaculated, as she settled herself down again in her wraps, "thank goodness, we have no fellow-passengers. Now I mean to go to sleep again, and so may you, child, if you like. We shall stop at Oddingstowe for dinner and fresh horses, and by four o'clock we should be at Felway, where the Marristons' carriage—and, it is to be hoped, a cart for the luggage—is to meet us. They expect us to stay at the Priory for two or three days. They know you will be with me."

"Yes, thank you," replied Clodagh again, feeling mortally shy at the prospect before her, yet not venturing to say so.

Paulina composed herself to sleep once more, and before long, in spite of the thoughts that crowded her mind—anxieties, hopes, and fears, as she realised more clearly her new position as her kinswoman's companion—Clodagh too, though a few minutes ago she would not have believed it possible, Clodagh too dozed off.

And she slept, as did Paulina, for some time. The stopping of the vehicle, the cessation of the monotonous rumbling, aroused them both.

Paulina sat up, rubbing her eyes.

"Dear me," she exclaimed, "Oddingstowe already!"

Clodagh looked out of the window.

"No," she said hesitatingly. "I don't think it can be. There's no village or houses; only a turnpike. Oh, yes," she went on, "I see what it is. We're stopping to take up another passenger."

"What sort of one?" her cousin demanded. "I hope to goodness it's not a first-class one—an inside one—we are stuffed up enough already. There's scarcely air to breathe."

"N-no," Clodagh replied, continuing to look out. "I don't think it can be. It's only a little old woman, quite poor, and she doesn't seem to have any luggage. She's only carrying a hand-bag—just a sort of reticule."

"All right," Paulina responded, lazily settling herself again for another nap. "All the same, I wish they wouldn't pull up in this unnecessary way. I was so comfortably asleep. It's the only thing to do in this tropical heat."

Clodagh too was sitting down again, congratulating herself, more on Paulina's account than her own, that their privacy was not to be disturbed—when, alas, her unspoken relief proved premature. To her astonishment, the guard approached the door, which he opened, and with a "your pardon, ladies," to the two girls, held it civilly by the handle, for the new-comer to enter.

Clodagh instinctively drew back a little for her to pass. There were four places—two and two—facing each other. Hitherto the younger girl had been sitting beside her cousin—the opposite seat covered with their possessions. But now she at once began to clear a space on it for herself, for she saw at a glance that the stranger was old, and looked fragile and delicate, and in spite of the extreme simplicity of her attire—she wore only a clean but faded cotton of an old-fashioned flowery pattern, half covered by a sort of market-woman's cloak, and surmounted by a huge black straw bonnet—in spite of this there was a certain dignity about her as in reply to Clodagh's silent attention she murmured, "I thank you, young lady. But do not disturb yourself. I can occupy the back seat."

"I should think so indeed," exclaimed Paulina angrily. "Indeed, my good woman, I am inclined to believe that your coming in here at all is some mistake. This is for first-class passengers, and moreover our places have been engaged for some days ahead.—What are you thinking of, you silly child?" she went on sharply, turning to her cousin. "Why should you give up your place to this person and her bundles? I won't have it. Sit down beside me at once," for Clodagh with a crimson face was still hesitating and moving about the bags and baggage nervously, though the new-comer had already settled herself quietly with her back to the horses.

"Paulina," said the younger girl in a low voice, "do not be so excited. She has no bundles, or anything, so it cannot really inconvenience us. And she is old, and looks so fragile. It is only right that I should offer her my seat."

Paulina was about to reply in the same irritated tone, when she was interrupted.

"I thank you, my kind young lady," said the stranger in a clear voice, which somehow enforced attention, "I thank you for your courtesy and consideration. But I have no desire to take your place, I assure you. In fact I prefer this side. I am an old traveller. Nor will my presence incommode you for long. I shall leave the coach before we reach Oddingstowe."

Clodagh murmured a gentle "Thank you." She was grateful to the old woman for not resenting her cousin's rudeness. And to Paulina she whispered, "She cannot be a mere peasant. Her voice and words show it"; and to do her justice, the elder girl looked a little ashamed of herself.

"Don't tease me," she said. "It always upsets me to be wakened suddenly. I'm going to sleep again," and so saying she leant back and closed her eyes.

And after a few minutes Clodagh followed her example, though she was no longer sleepy. But something—a vague feeling of slight shyness—made her do so, for she was conscious of her opposite neighbour's scrutiny. Now and then from the depths of the quaint black bonnet she caught the gleam of dark bright eyes, and the sensation caused her cheeks to grow pink again.

"Who and what can she be?" the girl said to herself. "She certainly looks like a peasant, but her voice—her expressions—her dignity belie it," and thus puzzling over the anomaly, Clodagh after all fell asleep.

Now I must mention what may seem strange and most improbable. You will remember the description given to the young traveller only an hour or two before the coach stopped at the turnpike, of the old lady in the neighbourhood, concerning whom such curious and even uncanny things were said?

Yes—well, this is the strange fact. Though Clodagh was at once impressed in an unusual way by the personality of their fellow-traveller, and perplexed to explain her inconsistencies, never once during the day's journey did it occur to her to put "two and two together"; to guess, as no doubt you, children, who are reading this little old story, will already have done, that here in person was the mysterious lady of the landlady's legend—the being who, if not actually of fairy race herself, still had much in common with the "good people," and doubtless dealings with them.

But so it happened with Clodagh, and afterwards—not a long-delayed afterwards either, as you will hear—she felt quite unable to explain her own forgetfulness, or "stupidity" as she called it.

In the meantime what occurred was this. She slept and Paulina slept on uninterruptedly till the coach drew up at Oddingstowe. And when it did so, and the clatter over the cobble-stones of the old inn's courtyard aroused them, lo and behold, they were alone! The strange new-comer had disappeared. The whole episode might have been a dream, only that rarely, if ever, do any two people dream the same and at the same time.

Paulina stared.

"She's gone," she exclaimed.

"Yes," said her cousin, feeling very much inclined to add, "You needn't have been so rude to her."

"I never felt or heard the coach stop to let her get out," added the elder girl.

"Nor did I," said Clodagh, "only——"

"Only what?"

"Nothing. I was dreaming, I suppose. But I have a misty recollection of hearing some one say, almost in a whisper, 'Good-bye for the present, my dear. We shall meet again.'"

"I hope not," said Paulina, with a slight shudder. "Clodagh, you don't think possibly she's a witch?"

Clodagh's spirit of mischief inclined her to frighten her cousin a little, but she refrained.

"No, of course not," she replied. "She's a very polite and harmless old woman, though, no doubt, there did seem something rather odd—mysterious almost—about her. But if I may say it, Paulina, I think, in travelling especially, it is best to be so—polite I mean—to everybody one is thrown into contact with."

Paulina muttered something which sounded like "rubbish" or "nonsense," but aloud she only said snappishly, "You know nothing about travelling, child. One has to keep up one's dignity."

"There is a good way and a bad way of doing so," thought the younger girl, though she said nothing more. She was relieved, however, to see that her cousin was not really vexed with her, for she had spoken impulsively, forgetting that it was scarcely her place to reprove Paulina, all things considered.

"I think she is really gentler and kinder than she sometimes appears," Clodagh's reflections went on. "I fancy I shall be able to get on with her if I am patient, and if I try my best. The only thing I am depressed about is the luggage! I don't know how to get my own things into smaller compass, and when it comes to all her belongings too, I don't see my way at all. I am so afraid of losing any of her beautiful clothes, and no doubt she has valuable jewellery too, and she is very changeable in her plans. Lady Roseley warned me that sometimes I should have to pack and unpack at very short notice indeed!" and she could not help sighing a little. But Paulina did not observe it, for by this time, as I said, they were at Oddingstowe, the small town where they were to stop to change horses and to have some early dinner, of which the elder girl declared that she felt much in need.

An hour later they started again, to Paulina's satisfaction no other inside passenger appearing. A short though heavy thunder shower had somewhat cleared the air, the simple meal had refreshed them, and Paulina seemed quite to have recovered her good-temper. She grew talkative.

"Have you ever heard of the Marristons?" she asked. "My friends at the Priory, you know, where we are to spend a few days."

Clodagh shook her head.

"No," she replied. "You said in your last letter that you had a visit to pay on your way to the place where you intend to drink the waters, but you did not mention any names."

"Didn't I?" said Paulina carelessly. "Oh well, I'm not good at letter-writing. They're very nice people, and very kind. You needn't feel shy about going there," for Clodagh's manner and rising colour had already shown that shy she was. "It won't be a large party, as they are quite alone just now; just the father and mother, elderly people, their married son and his wife and two daughters, older than you and I." Paulina rather liked to make herself out younger than she was, when it suited her, though at other times she treated her cousin as if she were a complete child.

"I am glad of that," Clodagh replied. "Then," she went on, somewhat nervously, "perhaps you won't wear your very best dresses there, or shall I take out everything?" for this terrifying question of packing and unpacking was still uppermost in her mind.

"Oh dear me!" exclaimed Paulina crossly, "perhaps not. How can I say? You'll just have to see. That's what I want you for—to use your intelligence; don't you understand? I hate being asked about every trifle." Then, feeling that she had been speaking irritably, she went on more kindly: "I suppose you've got some tidy gowns of your own—your granny liked you to look nice, I know."

"I haven't got any proper evening gowns," said Clodagh. "I used to wear simple white muslin—not grown-up gowns, you know, but since grandmother died I've only had black."

"Ah yes, of course," Paulina agreed. "Well, just wear your nicest black in the evening. Your being in mourning will explain it's not being full dress. When we get to St. Aidan's"—the place where she intended to drink the waters—"I'll see about some gowns for you. I hear that the shops there are quite modish."

"Thank you," said Clodagh gratefully. But in her heart she was thinking: "Oh dear, if I'm to have more clothes, it will make the packing still worse, and where am I to put them if Cousin Paulina complains already of my luggage?"

But no more was said on the subject just then, and before very long they found themselves at Felway, where they left the coach, to complete the rest of the day's journey in Squire Marriston's chariot, which was awaiting them, as well as, to Paulina's satisfaction, a cart for their voluminous belongings.

The elder girl stepped into the roomy vehicle and glanced round her with approval.

"What a comfort to be less crowded up!" she exclaimed. "Clodagh, tell them to put everything in the cart. Just give me my satin mantle—these hot days sometimes end in chilly evenings—nothing else," and as her cousin obeyed her, "You are sure nothing was left in the coach?"

"Nothing," replied Clodagh confidently. "Still, I'll glance inside again, to make quite sure," and she did so, for the stage-coach was still there, waiting for fresh horses.

She came back to report satisfactorily, and they set off.

It was a longish drive, five or six miles, and the latter part through rough roads and lanes which reminded Clodagh of her native land.

"Thank goodness," said Paulina more than once, "that it is not winter or very wet weather. We should stick fast in the mud in these cart-tracks, to a certainty."

But before long they reached the Priory, safe and sound, and as they drove up the avenue, caught sight of two or three figures waiting to welcome them in front of the picturesque old house.

It was not a very large place, but home-like and attractive. Clodagh, who was accustomed to huge rambling "castles," often in a more or less dilapidated state, felt glad that this, the first English country-house she had seen, was smaller and less imposing, and the kind greetings of the Misses Marriston soon helped her to feel less shy and timid. It was long before these modern days of "five o'clock teas," but then dinner was proportionately early, and when the new-comers had shaken hands with the rest of the family, assembled in the hall to welcome them, Annot Marriston, the younger of the daughters and Paulina's special friend, proposed that the cousins should at once go up to their rooms.

"You will be glad to take off your travelling things," she said, "and dinner will be ready in less than an hour."

At this, Paulina's face fell, and Clodagh looked rather blank. For by this time they were standing in the spacious and comfortable guest-chamber prepared for the former, out of which opened a smaller but pleasant little room for her young cousin companion. But in neither, naturally enough, was there as yet any sign of their belongings.

"Dinner in less than an hour!" exclaimed Paulina; "and how am I to change my dress? I suppose, my dear Annot, the luggage-cart won't be here in time?"

Miss Annot shook her head.

"Not for an hour or nearly that, I fear," she replied. "It comes slowly. But there is room on the chariot for a box or two. I wish I had told the men to mention this, and then you could have brought on with you whatever you needed at once."

Paulina looked extremely annoyed.

"Clodagh," she said sharply, "you really might have thought of it."

Clodagh looked and felt guilty.

"I will do so another time," she murmured.

Annot felt sorry for her.

"I'll run down and enquire about the cart," she said. "Possibly it may not take as long as I said," and she was hastening off when Paulina stopped her, for she had sufficient good sense and feeling not to wish to begin their visit by a scene of ill-temper.

"After all," she said, "it does not very much matter, my dear Annot, if you all will kindly excuse our enforced deshabille, as I understand you are quite alone—just your own family party."

Annot hesitated a little.

"Ye-es," she replied. "Certainly only a family party. But I was just going to tell you that Cousin Felicity has arrived unexpectedly. She had retired to her own apartment before you drove up. That is her way, you know. She swoops down upon us without the slightest warning and off again in the same way."

"How very disagreeable!" ejaculated Paulina, but Miss Marriston hastened to correct her.

"No," she said, "on the contrary, we are always very pleased to see her. She is a most interesting person and has travelled immensely. At the same time, I confess that we are somewhat in awe of her, and always behave to her with the greatest deference and respect. She is a strange mixture. Sometimes she goes about like an old peasant or gipsy—no one knows how old she really is! But on occasions, always at dinner for instance, she dresses magnificently—her diamonds are a sight to see! That was why I hesitated just now, for I should have liked you to be in correct attire. I will just ask about the cart," and off she went, to return in a minute or two with the cheering information that there was every chance of the luggage arriving in about half an hour.

"And in the meantime," she said, "let me lend you brushes and combs, or whatever will help you to begin your toilet."

"Oh pray do so," said Clodagh gratefully. "Cousin Paulina, I am at least sure that I can arrange your hair so as to please you. I have really practised hair-dressing. I have so much of my own."

"Well, then," said Paulina, when kind Annot returned with the promised articles, "you may as well set to at once," and she proceeded to take off her hat and veil and other things. "I don't think I ever heard of this eccentric relative of yours before," she went on, turning to her friend. "She must be quite a character."

"That she is," was the reply. "I wonder I never told you about her. Mother is not sure that she really is a cousin, but she likes us to call her so. The relationship must be very distant, dating back to former generations, for both my parents remember her as an old lady when they were only children."

Here Clodagh gave a little exclamation. Annot stopped politely.

"Did you speak?" she said.

Clodagh blushed, as she often did.

"I beg your pardon," she replied. "I don't know what I meant. It suddenly struck me that I had already heard of some one like your cousin, so very old that no one living could remember the person, whoever it was, as anything but old. It is curious," she went on dreamily, "that I cannot recall where I heard it," for even then no remembrance of the landlady's mysterious description awoke in her mind.

"Well, what does it matter?" said Paulina sharply. "Don't worry about it when you are doing my hair. You gave it such a tug just now when you started so."

"I'm very sorry," said the girl, and she gave her whole attention to the work in hand, as to which she was really skilful.

Then Annot left them, repeating her hopes that the luggage would not be long of coming. "I quite think it may," she said, "for they took a good strong horse in the cart—not one of the ponies only."

But time went on. Paulina's "coiffure" was completed, happily to her satisfaction; the hands of the clock were fast approaching the dinner-hour, and no sign of the longed-for arrival.

"Only twenty minutes now," said Paulina. "Really I have never been so awkwardly placed before. I must say, Clodagh, I do think——" But these thoughts were destined to remain unrevealed, for at that moment there came portentous but most welcome sounds in the corridor outside the room, and in another moment a servant tapped at the door, and entering, requested the ladies kindly to direct the placing of the boxes.

Clodagh hurried out.

"All of yours had better be brought in here, I suppose, cousin?" she asked as she went.

"Of course, but not yet," Paulina exclaimed. "What are you thinking of, child? First of all I must get dressed. My black lace will be the quickest for to-night. It is in the brown leather imperial. Have that brought in, and—and the large despatch-box, and the rest can wait till we go downstairs."

The first-named case was carried to its place, and Paulina was busy selecting the key when Clodagh ran in with a startled face.

"Cousin," she exclaimed, "the despatch-box is not there!"

Paulina gave a shriek.

"Impossible—and with all my jewellery! Clodagh, you vowed that you saw everything off the coach, and I vow that I saw it lifted inside when I started."

"I did, I did see that everything was brought out," exclaimed Clodagh, now on the point of tears, when luckily, oh the relief of it, a highly respectable functionary in irreproachable attire appeared at the end of the passage, carrying with his own majestic hands the missing case.

"I have brought this myself, Madam," he said, addressing Paulina, "to see it delivered into your personal keeping, surmising that it was of importance."

"Oh thank you, thank you a thousand times," cried the younger girl impulsively in her joy, forgetting that she was not the person to reply, till her cousin, with a condescending gesture, answered stiffly: "I am obliged to you. You are quite right. The contents are of great value, and but for carelessness," with a glance at Clodagh, "the case should have come with ourselves in the chariot. It is not the kind of thing to be sent in a cart."

The butler, for such he was, bowed in reply.

"Exactly so," he said. "Another time I should advise——"

"Yes, yes," Clodagh interrupted. "I know it was my fault, but I shall understand better in future. Paulina, do make haste. I have got your dress out. We will be as quick as possible," she added, turning to the butler, who took the hint and with another bow his departure also.

And in an incredibly short time, thanks to Clodagh, whose eagerness seemed to give her two or three pairs of hands instead of one, the elder girl was attired, jewellery and all. She looked very handsome, and her young companion stepped back a step or two to admire her.

"Yes," said Paulina, glancing at the mirror with complacency, "I think I look all right. You're not half a bad maid, child, or let us say——"

"Never mind, if you're pleased, I don't care what I'm called," Clodagh interrupted. "If only," she added, with a little sigh, "if only I can learn about the luggage, the packing and unpacking and not losing things."

She opened the door as she spoke for her cousin to pass out, and for the first time, as she stood there, the colour of excitement in her face and the sparkle in her eyes, it struck Paulina that the "child," as she called her with half-contemptuous affection, was fast becoming a very pretty creature, and with this came a sudden flash of self-reproach, for there was nothing consciously selfish or small-minded about the elder girl, spoilt and self-willed and autocratic as she was.

She stopped short with a gesture of horror.

"What have I been thinking of?" she exclaimed, "and you yourself, Clodagh? You're not dressed—you've not begun to dress, and the dinner-hour already or almost. Why didn't you remind me that you had to get ready too?"

Clodagh smiled.

"I really don't think it matters," she said. "I haven't got a proper grown-up gown to begin with, and really there wasn't time to get out my things too. I'm sure Mrs. Marriston will understand, and I daresay I can have a little dinner sent up to me, if you——"

But she stopped short, for just then Annot came running along the passage towards them. "Can I——?" she was beginning, when, glancing at them and the confusion of boxes and bags lying about, she saw that there was something the matter. Paulina rapidly explained, and "Need I come down?" pleaded Clodagh.

"If she doesn't," persisted her cousin, "it will put everything wrong. It will look as if—as if—you know, Annot, I want her to be considered a sort of younger sister of mine. We are near relations. Clodagh, you don't want me to seem selfish and unkind."

Miss Annot considered.

"After all," she said, "Clodagh—may I call you so?—is scarcely grown-up, and being in mourning too. If you just arrange your hair a little, though really it does not look bad—it is so bright and wavy—and—let me see, I can lend you a pretty simple fichu—over your plain black bodice it will look rather well. Come with me—my room is close at hand."

And in two or three minutes they returned to where Paulina was anxiously awaiting them—Clodagh looking quite fresh and sweet in the half Puritan-like garb, with a bow of black velvet in her hair and a bunch of violets as a breast-knot.

"Yes," thought her cousin, "she's going to be quite a beauty. I must get her some proper clothes, but"—as her eye fell on the confused pile of their possessions beside her—"I don't know how ever she will manage all this, and yet I can't go about with a maid as well! I do hope for her sake as well as my own that I haven't been rash in this plan."

But she smiled pleasantly enough as she thanked Annot for her kind offices, and then the three made their way downstairs together.

The drawing-room, or "long parlour" as the Marristons called it, deserved the latter name, for long it was. In fact it had originally been two if not three rooms, of which the end one was the most important, as it was considerably wider than the other part. It was the "saloon" of the house, where on more formal occasions the family received their guests, though in an ordinary way their manners and customs, as was the case in those days, while by no means "free and easy," were simple and homely enough.

But a visit from Cousin Felicity, however sudden and unexpected, at once necessitated gala gowns; the opening of the "withdrawing-room"; longer and more ceremonious meals, and all things in accordance with what the strange guest considered due to her.

For the time being the upset concerning the luggage and the consequent hurry had caused both the new-comers to forget all about their fellow-visitor, and it was with no preoccupation of mind concerning her that Paulina and Clodagh, escorted by Annot, made their way down the long room, to where at the end the members of the family group, whose greetings they had already received, were awaiting them. As they drew near, their hostess approached.

"You have made good speed, dear Miss Paulina," she said kindly, "dinner is not yet announced. In the meantime allow me to introduce you to our esteemed friend and relative, whose visit has happily coincided with your own," and she took the young lady's hand and led her towards a large chair of state covered with magnificent brocade, on one side of the fireplace, in which sat a small figure—small, but for that very reason perhaps among others—so startling was the contrast with its costly attire and with its extraordinary dignity and stateliness—the very reverse of insignificant or unnoticeable.

Paulina half unconsciously drew back a little, slightly turning away. She was naturally of a haughty disposition, added to which, adulation and flattery had helped to spoil her, and at once she felt annoyed at being led forward like a child, to be presented to a complete stranger, and this disagreeable sensation was increased by the fact that the figure in the great chair remained motionless—motionless and mute. The small lady might have been a statue or a wax doll. But in spite of herself something made Paulina look straight at "Cousin Felicity," and now that she saw her at close quarters, the splendour of her jewels, the priceless lace in which she was draped, almost took away the younger woman's breath. She half gasped—and then, feeling her eyes caught and held as it were by the strange power of the piercing black ones, gleaming in the midst of the colourless little old face, Paulina, mistress of her emotions as she prided herself on being, Paulina, to whom timidity and shyness were unknown, felt her cheeks crimson, and hardly realising what she was doing, she curtseyed low and deferentially.

"Though, after all," as she said to herself a minute or two later, when she had recovered her usual, somewhat arrogant self-possession, "after all, hateful old cat though she is, she is an aged woman—too old to act these ridiculous travesties—and I hope I know what good breeding demands of politeness to our elders."

For, as this mention of her later reflections shows, Paulina was by no means as yet out of the wood.

The ancient lady held out her glittering hand.

"Does she expect me to kiss it?" the girl asked herself, when, to her horror, came a reply to the unspoken query.

"No," said Cousin Felicity, as she touched the tips of Paulina's now extended fingers, "no," and this was the first word she had uttered, "she does not. But what she sets far before curtseys and deference to fine clothes and diamonds is respectful behaviour to the poor and aged. How about the old peasant who presumed to intrude upon you this morning?"

Then Paulina knew, and she shivered. But her courage was good. "It was not only what you think, Madam," she replied, "you do me scarce justice. I desire to show respect to age. This morning I was taken aback. I was so newly roused."

Cousin Felicity bent her head, as if in royal pardon, though she did not speak, and Paulina turning quickly, was glad to catch hold of Annot, who with some of the others had drawn near in curiosity, though this was tempered by their familiarity with the strange old dame's eccentricity.

"You have met before?" Annot whispered. "She often frightens people at first," for she felt that her friend was trembling.

"I am not frightened," returned Paulina in the same tone. "I was only startled and—rather angry. I had forgotten all about what you told us. I will explain afterwards. I don't think people—especially old ladies—should play tricks to catch others."

Annot smiled, but she herself looked nervous.

"Dear Paulina," she pleaded, "for goodness sake, don't be angry. I told you she was not to be counted in any way as an ordinary person. Don't frown so. She may see it—oh no, she is now occupied with Clodagh. Just watch."

For by this time it was the younger girl's turn to be led up to the great armchair.

She had been standing a little in the background, standing there dreamily, as if she were trying to remember something. But she did not seem timid or shy when at a touch on the arm from her hostess she came quietly forward, her sweet Irish blue eyes, looking almost black under their long lashes, lifted with a sort of gentle, half-bewildered enquiry, as she drew near to the formidable little old lady.

And for the first time, as the keen, piercing glance of this redoubtable personage fell upon the young girl, a smile, softening the hard expression and marvellously rejuvenating the small dried-up features, crept over Cousin Felicity's face.

"Welcome, my dear," she said, as she held out her hand in an inviting though yet regal manner, and Clodagh, feeling, she knew not why, impelled to do so, stooped and kissed it gently and respectfully.

Stooped and kissed it gently and respectfully.

"Thank goodness," murmured such of the family as were near enough to watch the small drama, "thank goodness, she has taken a fancy to the child, and Clodagh is much more tactful than Paulina," for in their heart both Mrs. Marriston and her daughters had been trembling, especially since the reproof which the elder girl had received.

"I am glad to thank you for your courtesy to a lonely and homely old fellow-traveller this morning," Cousin Felicity continued, and then Clodagh's grave face brightened and a touch of colour came into it. She had scarcely overheard what had passed between Paulina and the aged guest, or rather perhaps she had been in too absent a mood to take it in. But now a look of relief spread over her, and she answered in her usual frank and simple way.

"Oh!" she said, "I am so glad you got here comfortably. I think we had both fallen asleep at the time you left the coach, and I—I was so sorry not to have been of any service to you—I had no idea we were bound for the same place," she added, with a little smile of surprise.

"Naturally," Cousin Felicity replied; "that is why I so fully appreciate your courtesy." And she gave an odd though not disagreeable little laugh as she went on: "I hope you lost none of your goods and chattels on the way? You seemed to be somewhat overburdened."

Clodagh drew still nearer to the old lady.

"Yes, indeed," she said. "I am not surprised at your noticing it." Paulina was not near enough to overhear, "We have a terrible number of packages," and her face grew anxious at the remembrance. "It was that, partly, that made my cousin seem so cross," she went on, lowering her voice. "We were so crowded up. And I am so unused to travelling. I don't know how I shall manage. Paulina is so kind to me, and of course I must learn to be of real use to her."

The elder Miss Marriston, Thomasine by name, was standing near. She smiled at Clodagh's sudden, almost childish outburst of confidence—afterwards Clodagh felt at a loss to explain it to herself, for as a rule she was by no means a chatterbox—and remarked, though with a touch of deferential apology in her tone:

"Our Cousin Felicity is the genius of travelling in person. If she would teach you some of her experience, Miss Clodagh, you would indeed be fortunate. We always do say, you know, dear cousin, that you manage as if by magic."

The old lady smiled. She did not seem ill-pleased.

"Yes," said Clodagh, glancing almost with reverence at the exquisite yellowish lace, of cobweb-like texture, draping its owner's skirt, "to see all these lovely treasures of attire, one wonders how it can be so quickly arranged and re-arranged—and packed! For, as far as I remember, Madam, you carried but little with you."

Cousin Felicity smiled again.

"You are right," she said. "I detest encumbrances. I travel with the smallest amount of luggage possible. Not that this lace would add to it——" and she passed her jewelled fingers over it fondly. "All I am wearing could go through a wedding ring. It belonged to my—ah, well, we need not say how far back among my ancestors it dates from."

"It was made in fairyland, I believe," murmured Clodagh, and then there stole across her memory some of the old tales and sayings she had heard in her nursery—how that the "good folk," the "little people," reckon not age and time as we do—that five centuries is in fairyland but as five years, if that, to us. And the story of little Bridget, whose human life ebbed out "between the dawn and morrow," poor little Bridget! recurred to her with a slight shiver. It must have shown in her eyes as she raised them again to her new friend's strange face. But what she read there reassured her in some mysterious way, and then, as if a door or window had suddenly opened in her mind, there flashed into her remembrance all that the landlady of the old inn had told her that very morning about the mysterious and fitful lady in the neighbourhood.

"It is she herself," thought Clodagh. "How extraordinary that I did not guess it before! But, fairy or no fairy, she wishes me nothing but good," and a sweet, grateful smile lighted up the young girl's face, chasing away the first vague misgivings.

"Yes," came in a very soft whisper to her ears, "yes, my dear, you know something about me, and before we part we must have some talk together," but to this there was no time for her to reply, as at that moment dinner was announced and the elder Mr. Marriston came forward to offer his arm to the venerable guest.

Somehow, though she found herself for the first time in her life among strangers, Clodagh did not feel shy or ill at ease. She had an underlying consciousness that she was kindly regarded, for her own sake as well as to please her cousin. Paulina, who by this time had regained her self-possession, was gentler than her wont, and did not speak much. Indeed, though all passed pleasantly there was an indefinite feeling of formality and ceremony not usual in the cheerful and friendly family group.

"It is not half as lively and amusing with that old——" "cat," Paulina was probably going to say but for a "hush" from Clodagh, for it was to her young cousin she was whispering on their way to the drawing-room. "Well—with her here," she continued. "They are all so desperately in awe of her, I can't understand it."

"But do be careful," urged Clodagh. "She may overhear, and you really should be polite and respectful. As you say yourself, age alone demands it."

"I'm not going to be rude," Paulina replied, and she meant what she said, though in her heart she had not forgiven the reproof she had received, especially as she knew she had deserved it. But just as they were entering the long parlour, Clodagh stopped her.

"Cousin," she said, "I cannot rest with the thought of all our things—yours especially—in such confusion upstairs. Will you allow me to go to our rooms now and arrange them, partly at least? I am sure Mrs. Marriston and her daughters will excuse me, if you explain to them."

Paulina hesitated. She had a horror of seeming to treat her young relation as an inferior, and yet she saw that it would really be kinder to agree. Just then Thomasine came up to them, and on Paulina's putting the question to her she took Clodagh's part.

"Yes," she said, "I think it would be far better than for this child to stay down till late, and then probably not get to bed for ever so long." For the Marristons fully understood the position. So Clodagh, much relieved, bade Thomasine a cheerful good-night and ran off.

She worked hard—unpacking, separating, to some extent packing again, for the weather was very hot and she knew that certain clothes could not possibly be required during the few days of their stay at the Priory. She was quick and intelligent and sensible, still she was very young and her task was not an easy one, and but for her extreme anxiety to be of real use to her cousin, she would almost have despaired of managing it.

"But it would never do for me to lose heart at the first start," she said to herself, "and of course, unless I prove fit for the post, Paulina could not afford to keep me with her, as Lady Roseley explained. For she is not very rich, and it is such a blessing to be with her instead of with strangers who knew nothing about me except that I was poor and homeless."

So she cheered up and worked on bravely. The evenings were long, for it was barely past midsummer, and the dinner had been early, so she had time enough to arrange her cousin's belongings, though she had scarcely touched her own, when Paulina made her appearance yawning and wishing herself in bed.

"Good gracious, child!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of Clodagh, "are you at it still? Why, I expected to find you undressed at least, if not in bed. But I must say you seem to have a head on your shoulders. My things look most methodically arranged. And how about your own?"

"Oh," said Clodagh, much pleased, in spite of feeling very sleepy and tired, "I shall soon get them done. I will not make any noise if you go to bed now, but I should like to feel things were tidy before——"

But Paulina interrupted her.

"Nonsense," she said. "I insist on your going to bed yourself. Just get out what is absolutely necessary. You can finish in the morning, and remember," she went on, for she was standing with the door open, and the corridor was still encumbered, "remember to ask the servants to pile up or carry away some of these boxes. One can scarcely get in and out of the rooms. I wish your luggage were a little more concentrated. You have such a number of small cases and bags."

"Yes," Clodagh agreed. "You see I have never travelled any distance till now," and she eyed her goods and chattels somewhat disconsolately.

"We must arrange about it," said Paulina vaguely. "But now, get to bed quickly," and after all, Clodagh felt that she really was getting too sleepy to do more than was unavoidable, and in a short time both girls were fast asleep, Clodagh's last waking thought being a resolve to get up very early indeed to complete her arrangements.

"I wish I could have got it all done to-night, but anyway the confusion outside could not be cleared till to-morrow."

She was tired and she slept soundly, still not quite dreamlessly. One very queer experience she had, and even when she was wide-awake, and daylight streaming in, she could not make up her mind if it had been dream or reality.

This was it, "and," she said to herself, "I am almost certain I was awake."

It was midsummer weather, as I said, so the window was wide open, and suddenly through the silence Clodagh heard a familiar sound. It was that of bees humming. It grew nearer and nearer, and opening her eyes—or dreaming that she did so—she looked up. The room was flooded with moonlight, and in it she perceived the source of the sound. Two large bees were buzzing about, very busy apparently, but as there were no flowers on the table or mantelpiece, Clodagh wondered sleepily what could have attracted them.

"I hope they won't sting me," she thought, for the humming grew nearer, and then, strange to say, out of it gradually soft-whispering words shaped themselves.

"Don't wake her, whatever you do," said one bee. "She is fast asleep and we must obey orders."

"But we can't help humming," murmured the other.

"Well, hum gently. It will soothe her, and let us set to work, for there is plenty to do before daylight."

That was all she heard, and soothe her the sound must have done, for she knew nothing more till she really and unmistakably awoke, to see the sunshine—the lovely, clear early summer morning sunshine—pouring in, to hear the dear birds welcoming another happy beautiful day.

Clodagh started up. She had never felt fresher or brighter; all last night's tiredness had gone. She was used to early rising, and felt that to stay lazily in bed was impossible.

"It would be delicious out-of-doors," she thought, "but I must finish the tidying and sorting, if possible before Paulina awakes," and she sprang out of bed.

But—she rubbed her eyes—was she dreaming? The cupboards, of which there were two in the old-fashioned room, the roomy chest of drawers, all stood open, as if to exhibit their contents and demand approval, and in them were arranged with the perfection of neatness and judiciousness all her possessions, last night in disorder and barely unpacked. And on a chair lay her garments for the day, not only those she had herself placed there, but a spotless cool white gown—much cooler than the black one she had travelled with—the very one she had been hoping to get out and don that morning.

"Have I done it all in my sleep?" she asked, and then some undefined feeling made her open the door and peep out into the passage. Wonder of wonders! All the confusion had disappeared. There stood there, in dignified importance, two roomy, substantial trunks only, one of which she recognised as her cousin's principal one, with her initials in small brass nails on the lid, the other, similar in make and appearance, with the first letters of her own two names marked in the same way. The very sort of thing she had begun to long for since seeing Paulina's.

She lifted the lid—a series of trays was disclosed, and examining further, she perceived at the bottom, most beautifully folded, all her own thicker clothing, gowns and woollens quite unsuitable for present wear, and as she went on in breathless excitement to peer into her cousin's, there was the same arrangement. The very garments she had herself put aside for the present, the evening before, lay there undisturbed, or rather, she suspected, far more exquisitely folded than she had left them. And all the rest, the bandboxes and carpet-bags and unbusiness-like odds and ends she had brought over the sea, had disappeared, as if by magic.

"And magic it is," she said to herself, for, as she stood there listening, a clock in the distance struck five, not another sound or rustle was to be heard. Not a soul was as yet astir in the old house.

Clodagh danced back into her room.

"The fairies are afield," she sang to herself softly. Never had she felt so gay and light-hearted. "I shall dress and run out into the garden," she thought. "There is nothing to keep me indoors. Everything is safe"—for the heavy despatch-box she knew to be in Paulina's keeping. "What will the servants think when they see it?"

What they did think was that each thought the others had cleared away the pile of the young ladies' luggage, leaving only what was required. Or at least, as no questions were asked, no remarks made, they probably thought so, if they thought about it at all! Perhaps their curiosity was put to sleep by some uncanny though not maleficent influence. Who can say?

And in a very short time Clodagh was ready, and hat in hand, looking like the very spirit of the morning in person, she ran downstairs to find the old hall-porter sleepily unbarring the great door, though, sleepy as he was, he could not restrain a smile of admiration and a respectful "You be early about, Miss," to which she laughingly replied, "Who could help it, once they were awake, on such a morning?"

Yet another surprise awaited her, as you shall hear.

The Priory grounds were fairly extensive and delightfully quaint. Great laurel hedges, alternating with curiously high-clipped yews, and some magnificent elms added to the impression of space, as well as to that sort of pleasant "mystery" without which no garden is thoroughly fascinating.

"What a lovely place to explore!" said Clodagh to herself, as she turned down one long shady path, streaked here and there with the early sun-rays filtering through the foliage. Then a sound reached her ears, which recalled her experience of the night before. It was the humming of bees. She stood still for a moment to listen, feeling as if she were on the confines of some enchanted region. Then slowly, treading very softly, she went on. Yes—in a minute or two she saw at the end of the path a huge beautiful beehive, its inhabitants flying in and out, buzzing away, like the busy creatures they are. And in front of it stood a quaint little figure, whom Clodagh this time had no difficulty in at once recognising as the mysterious "Cousin Felicity" again.

Her laces and diamonds of the evening before seemed a dream, though her dress was dainty enough, much finer in quality than the very homely attire in which Clodagh had first seen her. It was a gown of flowered chintz, of the delicate colouring and excellent material that one now and again finds treasured among family relics—such as "my great-grandmother's" or even "great-great-grandmother's dresses." And the skirt was drawn through the pocket-holes in the orthodox old-fashioned way, showing the pink cotton petticoat and the neat little high-heeled shoes. The whole figure, as she stood with her back to the new-comer, was so trim and slim and youthful, that it gave almost a shock to Clodagh when the little lady turned suddenly and she caught sight of the tiny, withered, white face, surmounted by a kind of mob cap, from beneath which escaped a few soft grey curls. Yet it was evident that Cousin Felicity was in very good health and spirits, for she smiled beamingly as she accosted the young girl.

"The top of the morning to you, my dear," she said. "That's your national greeting, is it not? I knew you were not a lie-abed. Well, and how wags the world with you? I have been visiting my friends here, you see. We understand each other, these clever little creatures and I," and she fixed her bright eyes on Clodagh.

For a moment or two Clodagh stood silent. Then a smile broke over her face.

"Madam, lady, what shall I call you?" she exclaimed. "I must say it. I know the truth. You are a fairy. It is you I have to thank for what has been done to help me in the night!"

"Call me what you please, my dear, when we are alone," said the old lady, "but keep what you know, or suspect—rather more than the actual fact, by the bye," she added—"keep it to yourself. I know you are discreet, otherwise I could not be of service to you as I intend to be. Now tell me, child, what are your troubles or anxieties, for some I know you have——"

"I don't feel as if I had any at all this morning," Clodagh interrupted laughingly.

"Ah, well—so much the better, it shows a healthy nature," was the reply. "But, tell me, is that very autocratic young woman, your cousin, good to you? Are you happy to be with her?"

"Yes, yes, truly I am," Clodagh replied eagerly. "That is to say, I feel sure I am going to be so. You see we only met again yesterday, after not having seen each other for several years, not since I have been grown-up. But I must explain. Paulina is very kind. I am sorry she was rude to you yesterday. She was sorry herself afterwards, but she is only quick-tempered and spoilt. She has a kind heart. When my dear grandmother died I should have been homeless, forced to earn my living with strangers, but for her," and by this time Clodagh's eyes were filled with tears.

Cousin Felicity nodded her head slowly, and in a moment or two she spoke again.

"Did you love your Irish home very dearly?" she asked.

"Did I? Do I, rather," the girl replied. "Oh, dear lady, I adore it! But it is mine no longer. It belongs to strangers, it is best for me not to think of it; though I have known all my life that I should have to leave it when Granny left me, I don't think I realised it. That is why I am glad to travel. It is interesting, and takes my thoughts off, to see new places and people. I am glad that Paulina travels so much, if only——" and here she gave a deep sigh.

"Ah, ha," cried the little old lady, but though slightly mocking, her tone was not the least unkindly, "now we are getting to your troubles. What is that deep sigh about?"

"It's my fear that I can't manage things properly for Paulina," said Clodagh, "and if so, I must leave her. She is not very rich. She can't afford to buy me pretty gowns and things, as she means to do, if I cannot save her having a maid. She cannot take two about with her. Oh, it's the luggage! Do you know, yesterday I thought I had lost her jewellery—I'll never forget my horror!"

"Would you like to know how I travel? Shall I show you?" said her new friend.

Clodagh looked at her wonderingly.

"Indeed I would," she said. "But then," she went on, "though I am afraid you do not like me to say it, I know you are a——"

"S-sh. Never mind about that. Come with me," was the reply.

It was still very early. No one was about. Cousin Felicity took the girl's hand and turned to re-enter the house by a different way from that by which Clodagh had come. But before doing so, she stopped a moment and waved her tiny hand as if in adieu to the beehive.

"Thanks many," her companion heard her murmur. "You did your work well last night," and to Clodagh she went on, with a twinkle in her bright eyes, "Were you pleased with what you found this morning—the new trunk and all?"

"Pleased!" exclaimed the girl rapturously, "I couldn't believe my eyes. Not that I mind work," she went on, "I think I can soon learn to pack and unpack cleverly. It is the responsibility of all the things, the terror of losing them, that distresses me."

"Yes, yes," said her friend, "I understand. I do not mean to do all your work for you. It is the industrious and active, not the idle and lazy, that"—and here she gave her funny twinkling smile again—"that they help, as all the stories you have heard over the sea always tell. You shall see what I can do, and what you must do yourself."

By this time they had reached a side entrance to the house. The door stood open; a small staircase faced them, up which with wonderful quickness, considering her great age, Cousin Felicity sprang, followed by Clodagh, and crossing a landing, opened the door of a room, inviting the girl to enter with her.

It was a pleasant room; the first impression it made on Clodagh was of whiteness—and exquisite neatness. It matched the little old lady to perfection.

"This is where I always am, when I visit these kind people," she said. "No one ever has this room but myself. And," she went on in a low voice as if speaking to herself, "who, if I tried to tell it, would believe for how many generations it has been appropriated to me?"

Clodagh felt a thrill of awe as she caught the mysterious words. But in another moment Cousin Felicity had turned to her briskly, pointing to a neat, good-sized trunk standing in front of the fireplace.

"That is all my luggage," she announced. "It holds more than Paulina's fine lady's maid would have got into half-a-dozen like it, because I know how to pack. But—look at it well."

Clodagh stared at it obediently.

"Shut your eyes." She did so. Then it seemed to her that she heard a murmur of words.

"Open." Clodagh again obeyed. And this time, stare she did, for—the box was no longer there, it had vanished from view!

She was too astonished to speak.

"Hold out your hand," was the next command.

Cousin Felicity laid something on the outstretched palm. Clodagh gazed at it in amazement and admiration. It was a miniature trunk, evidently of the finest make. Never had she seen such a perfect toy of its kind, and it was an exact facsimile of her strange old friend's substantial box, which a minute before had been standing in front of her in the most matter-of-fact way. It was small—not above a couple of inches in length, and half as much in width and depth, but curiously heavy. It might almost have been a small block of lead, fashioned to represent a Liliputian portmanteau, and still Clodagh stood there staring at it, without speaking.

"That is how I travel," said the mysterious little lady at last. "It contains all my belongings, just as I told you the other—or rather itself in its other proportions—does. See, I slip it in here," and she held out the black hand-bag, or reticule, which the girl had noticed in the coach, and taking the little box from Clodagh she did as she said, "I draw the strings, I hang it over my arm," accompanying her explanations by the appropriate actions, "and there I am, ready to journey from one end of Europe to the other, or farther still, with no anxiety."

Her young protÉgÉe lifted her eyes.

"It is too marvellous, too delightful for words!" she exclaimed.

The little old lady smiled graciously.

"I knew you would say so," she replied. "Well, now, I can extend this magical power to you, on two conditions. You must keep the secret, absolutely and entirely, and you must do your own work perfectly. There must be no untidiness or hurry-scurry; you must never leave things behind, or tear or crumple them—if so, your carelessness will bring its own punishment, for it would prevent the spell's working, and even I—fairy or witch as you think me——"

"No, no," Clodagh interrupted eagerly, "not witch. You are too kind and charming to be that."

"Ah, well, we can leave aside the question of what or who I am. The point is what I can do, and what I cannot. And counteract the working or not working of the spell if the rules are broken, is beyond my power."

"But I will keep them," exclaimed Clodagh. "That is to say, I will do my very best to be most neat and methodical. Granny trained me to be neat. And I will keep the secret; that I promise, only——" and her face fell as a sudden idea disconcerted her.

"What?"

"If Paulina suspects anything? If she notices, and thinks there is something strange about it all?"

Cousin Felicity smiled.

"I will see to that. You need not be afraid. If you fulfil your part, you will have no trouble, as regards Paulina or any one else. Come now—I will go with you to your rooms to explain all, before any one is about. But first—close your eyes for a moment. Yes——" and when Clodagh opened them, there stood the trunk again, as she had first seen it!

She followed the old lady down a passage or two, and up some steps, till at the end of the corridor she saw that they were in the part of the house familiar to her. Cousin Felicity stopped in front of the two trunks, Paulina's and Clodagh's new one, standing just outside the doors of their rooms, and glanced at them approvingly. She was just going to speak when the girl touched her on the arm.

"I am afraid," she began timidly, "I am afraid that Paulina may be awake by now, and if she heard us and looked out——?"

Her friend nodded reassuringly. Then she noiselessly opened the door of the sleeper's room and stepped in, Clodagh close behind her. It was almost dark inside, for Paulina was not one of the people who like to see the dawn gradually creeping up—she always had her blinds drawn down. Still it was light enough for Clodagh to see the mysterious visitor make her way, swiftly and soundlessly, to the side of the bed. Then she stooped over the pretty face lying on the pillow, touched the closed eyelids softly, murmuring something inaudible, then came back to Clodagh waiting near the entrance and led the way outside again, closing the door behind them.

"That is quite safe," she said, smiling. "Have no fears for the present or the future. You will have no difficulties, I assure you. Now—" and she stood before the two closed boxes. "See," she said, "and listen. Whenever you have packed them neatly and perfectly, sure that nothing is forgotten, you lock as usual, deposit the keys safely, then stand in front of each in turn, touch the initials with your fore-finger—you have each three, 'P. O'B.' and 'C. O'B.'—saying slowly and clearly as you do so

"Then close your eyes for a moment, and you will see—hold, I will show you now. Shut your eyes." Clodagh did so. "Open." She obeyed, and there in front of her lay, so small that at the first moment she scarcely perceived them, two miniature editions of her own and Paulina's trunks, brass nails, letters and all.

"Feel them," said her companion.

Clodagh stooped and picked them up, her eyes sparkling with eagerness. They were heavy, certainly, but less so than the old lady's own one.

"You have a hand-bag?" this personage enquired.

"Oh yes," replied Clodagh, and in a moment she had fetched it. It held the toy trunks perfectly.

"Take them out again," came the order.

"Now," her friend continued, "listen. When you reach your destination, withdraw them from your reticule, place them wherever is most convenient, touch the letters again, beginning with the last, and say this time

and—all will be as you desire."

She smiled as she spoke.

"You may test it at once," she said. "Place them on the floor. Now——"

repeated Clodagh, touching the letters, as she did so, "B," the last, first. Then she shut her eyes, and when she looked again—yes—there they were, the two neat capacious trunks, as before.

"Oh," she said, with a sigh of delight. "It is too good to be true! How can I thank you?"

But as she looked up, holding out her hands in gratitude, lo and behold—Cousin Felicity had vanished. Glancing round quickly, however, Clodagh fancied she saw a shadow of something disappearing at the turn in the passage. Whether this was so or not, who can say?

Lo and behold—Cousin Felicity had vanished.

"I will thank her again when we meet downstairs," thought the girl, little imagining that this was not to be.

Just then the door behind her opened, and Paulina, her eyes still but half-awake, peeped out.

"Oh, child," she said, "is it late? You up and dressed already! I must hurry."

"There is plenty of time," Clodagh replied. "It is still early."

"How well and bright you look!" Paulina exclaimed. "You must have slept well. So unlike my last travelling companion—that silly PÉlagie—not of course, dear, that I mean to compare you with a maid-servant—but the airs she gave herself! She could never sleep the first night in a strange place, nor the last, because she was nervous about the pack——Oh," she broke off, "I see you've got rid of all the old bags and bandboxes. What a good thing! I didn't know you had such a nice sensible trunk, so neat, and just like mine."

"Yes," said the young girl. "It really holds more than I require. I have planned it all, Paulina. You shall never have any trouble about the luggage if you will leave the whole to me."

"I shall only be too thankful to do so," said her cousin lazily. "I think you are a genius, my dear. The way you have arranged my dresses and everything is simply perfection."

Half an hour or so later, the two, summoned by the breakfast gong, made their way downstairs, where most of the family were already assembled, and as the others dropped in, Clodagh looked round eagerly for her new-old friend. But come she did not, and after a short delay Mrs. Marriston turned to her elder daughter.

"Thomasine, my dear," she said. "I think you had better go upstairs to enquire for Cousin Felicity and offer to escort her. I scarcely like to begin breakfast without her, for fear of seeming to lack respect."

For those old-fashioned days were very ceremonious and any want of deference to the eccentric old lady was not to be thought of. Thomasine went at once, but in a very few minutes returned alone, holding a scrap of paper in her hand, looking somewhat disconcerted, though she was half laughing also.

"She has gone!" she exclaimed, "bag, baggage and all, leaving this."

Mrs. Marriston took the paper eagerly. "Oh, can we have offended her?" she said anxiously, but a moment after, she too laughed. "No, I see it is all right," she went on, reading aloud the note in her hand.

"'Farewell for the present, kind friends,' it said. 'A sudden summons to——'—no, I can't decipher the word—'cuts short my visit. Fare you well, one and all.'"

They looked at each other. Annot took the paper from her mother. "No," she agreed, "I cannot read it. But we never do know where she goes or how she goes! It may be Kamschatka or the moon."

"Or fairyland," murmured Clodagh.

"All the same," said Paulina, who, for her part, was by no means sorry for the mysterious lady's flight, "it cannot but be rather trying to have such a guest. She expects to be received with regal honours, and then off she goes like 'old Mother Goose when she wanted to wander.'"

The others laughed.

"My dear Paulina," said Annot, "you are a young 'Mother Goose' yourself, with your love of travelling."

"Quite so," Paulina agreed. "But you will allow that I give my hospitable friends some notice of my intentions. And, after all," she added, "some day, when Clodagh and I have had enough of wandering, we shall settle down, no doubt."

"And, to do our late guest justice," said Mrs. Marriston, "erratic as she is, her visits have never brought us anything but good luck. Her crossing the threshold is always beneficent. This very morning we have excellent news from India of our dear Humphrey, who, we heard by the last mail, was seriously ill. He has quite recovered."

She spoke of a younger son in the—in those days—very far-off East.

Clodagh had glanced up with quick interest when Paulina alluded to "some day settling down." Her feelings at present were very mingled. She scarcely understood them herself. She was ready keenly to enjoy the novelty and exhilaration of travel, seeing new places and people, and now that her one misgiving had been so marvellously removed, her spirits rose high. But still—she had not yet been away a week from her own old home, hers no longer, and already there were moments when, if she closed her eyes, she saw in fancy the dear rugged walls of Grey Rocks—the scene of her own and Paulina's childhood—and heard the splash of the waves at the foot of the cliffs, and then she would feel the tears creeping into her eyes, and she thought to herself, "I suppose it is what is called 'home-sickness,' but I must not give way to it. If only I could hope some day to go there again!"

It was not a very ambitious hope, for Grey Rocks was but a small domain, and had Clodagh's father lived it might have still been their own.

In the meantime, however, she greatly enjoyed the stay at the Priory, and every day she grew cleverer with regard to her duties. She practised folding and arranging Paulina's many garments till she really reached perfection, and she was so methodical and careful, yet never fussy or overwhelmed, that Paulina declared she had never been so splendidly looked after in her life. So far this was most satisfactory. Still, when the week to which their visit had been extended drew to its close, it must be confessed that Cousin Felicity's young protÉgÉe was not without nervousness as to the working of the spell.

"Suppose," she thought, "suppose I had dreamt it all!" But then her glance fell on her own beautiful new trunk—"No, no," she added, "of course it was real and true."

And when the morning of their departure came, nothing could have exceeded her care to remember everything.

She waited till Paulina, fully attired for the journey, had gone downstairs for a few last minutes with her hosts, then she rapidly deposited the precious despatch-box in a corner of her own trunk, in which there was still room; closed and locked both; recited as directed the words of the spell, shut her eyes, and waited, as before.

Yes—all was right. There lay the miniature luggage, and in another moment both toy boxes were safe in her reticule, and with light feet and a light heart she ran down to join the others, just as the chariot which was to take them to the nearest posting-house drew up at the door.

"Everything is ready," she said to Paulina. "I have seen to the luggage," and Paulina nodded carelessly.

"The ladies' things have gone on in a cart, I suppose?" asked one of the Marristons. The dignified butler replied that he understood it had been seen to, the truth being that he had not thought about it; and on his side the old hall-porter took for granted that the housemaids had had it conveyed down the back-stairs, that is to say if he thought about it at all!

Anyway, as the mysterious lady had promised, so it fell out. Clodagh was troubled with no enquiries, no interference.

And arrived at St. Aidan's Wells, where they were to spend some weeks, all continued satisfactory. Once, it must be confessed, on their way, Clodagh had a fright. For they had to make two breaks in the long journey, spending one night at each, and on the second occasion, after Clodagh had closed and locked and repeated the spell, lo and behold, it refused to act! She started in terror, then her eyes fell on her own little slippers, which she had forgotten to pack. In a moment she had repaired the mistake, and then—yes, all went as before.

"But," said the girl to herself, "I must be more than careful. For possibly a second lapse on my part might not be forgiven."

They remained at the watering-place for a month or two, then started off again; this time for a lively seaside town where Paulina had arranged to meet friends; then, as the autumn drew on, to country-houses in the hunting districts, for the elder girl was a good horsewoman, as indeed was Clodagh also. What true Irish girl is not?

It was all very pleasant and exciting and the cousins enjoyed it, yet sometimes Paulina declared herself tired and wishful for a rest, even though her journeys were accomplished with the smallest possible trouble. The variety of their visits called of course for constant renewal of dresses and additions to them, but never did the two spell-bound trunks seem too full, and every time she packed and unpacked, Clodagh thought with inexpressible gratitude of the "fairy lady," as to herself she called her, and her bestowal of the strange secret.

"But for her, I could not have managed," she often reflected. "I should have had to give it up—it would not have been fair to Paulina, and then where could I have gone, for home in my own country I have none? And oh, how, through all the novelty and amusement and excitement of travelling, in spite of the kindness I meet with, oh how I sometimes long to be in dear grandmother's old turret room, listening to the faint whirr of her spinning-wheel, and the louder sound of the waves breaking on the cliffs below! I can feel the breeze that always blew in if the casement in the deep window-seat was open; I can taste the salt flavour of the spray that sometimes on stormy days flew up to where I sat! Oh dear old home! I wonder if Paulina ever feels about it in the least as I do?" and then she would fall to wishing that she could somehow earn money enough to buy back the old "eyrie," and be its little chÂtelaine. "How I would enjoy receiving Paulina, and making her enjoy it!"

But for these day-dreams she had not much leisure, and she knew that she should not indulge in them. Still the longing was always there, and as time went on it grew more persistent and intense.

"It is just home-sickness," thought Clodagh, and she felt that she must not give way to it.

"I wish I could meet 'Cousin Felicity' again," she often said to herself. "She was so wise. I am sure she would advise me how to keep cheerful and content. And yet she must have understood, for I remember her asking me if I loved my home very dearly."

The weeks and months and almost the years—for one had fully gone, and the second since Clodagh's arrival on this side of the water was well on its way—passed, and then one day came little looked-for tidings.

The cousins were just then again at St. Aidan's, which Paulina, who had great faith in its waters, made a point of visiting once or twice a year. One morning, when Clodagh came in from doing some little commissions on the Parade, she found her friend, pale as death, half fainting in her chair, an open letter in stiff, formal writing on her knee.

"Clodagh, oh Clodagh," she exclaimed, "read, read. Who could have dreamt of it?"

And truly her distress was not to be wondered at, for the news was appalling, being nothing less but that of the poor young woman's almost total ruin by the failure of a bank. Clodagh for a moment felt stunned, but she soon collected herself and did her best to comfort her cousin.

"Take courage, dear Paulina," she said. "There is no need for despair. You have still enough for comfort of a simple kind, and I will work for you. It will be my turn to repay your generosity."

"Dear child," murmured her poor cousin, all her high spirit broken, "you have already far more than repaid anything I have done for you. But don't leave me, promise me. If we must starve, let it be together."

"We shall not starve," said Clodagh cheerfully. "If—oh, Paulina, I wonder if you could make up your mind to live at Grey Rocks. My old nurse would take us in. She has a little farm and a nice clean house. Granny gave it to her and furnished it. We could live there on almost nothing, and every one would know who we were and be good to us." Her eyes actually sparkled at the prospect.

And after a little Paulina caught some of the younger girl's spirit.

"Yes," she said, "it is the best thing we can do. I have none but happy remembrances of the old place."

So Clodagh wrote to the friend of her grandmother who had been her guardian, asking him to see her nurse and arrange it. Writing direct would have been useless, as the simple woman had never learnt to read. And as quickly as the slow mails of those days could bring it, came Mr. Fitzgerald's reply. More than a reply indeed, for he began the letter by saying that he had pen in hand to write to her when her request reached him, for he had an extraordinary communication to make.

"Grey Rocks, my dear Clodagh," he wrote, "is yours, your own property. It has again been for sale, as the late purchaser inherited unexpectedly a large property and did not care to retain the smaller one, and on the very day before I heard from you, a certain firm of lawyers, well known to me and entirely trustworthy, sent over a confidential clerk to arrange for the purchase for yourself—Miss Clodagh O'Beirne—of the entire little property, as a gift, an absolute gift from an unknown friend, on one condition only, that you will never seek to discover the giver. I rejoiced inexpressibly, but my rejoicing is doubled and trebled since the receipt of your distressing news this morning. Surely never was a kind deed more appropriate. All is already in train, and whenever it suits you to return, you, accompanied I hope by Miss Paulina O'Beirne, will be welcomed with heartfelt joy by us all."

Clodagh's delight may be imagined, and to Paulina also the news was an immense relief.

"Who can be the unknown friend?" she exclaimed, adding, however, "But as you must never try to find out, perhaps it is better not to speak of it."

"Much better," said Clodagh, and they never did.

And a happy home old Grey Rocks proved. It was but seldom they cared to leave it. But when they did "want to wander," and with good management their joint means were enough to enable them to do so now and then, you may be sure that their only luggage was the two well-tested trunks, whose marvellous properties never failed. Clodagh, of course, in her heart had her own secret belief as to the identity of her benefactor or benefactress, but the mysterious "fairy lady" she never saw again. And whether her visits to the Marristons at the Priory continued or not, I cannot say.

Nor can I tell you the after history of the cousins, though something whispers to me that their lives were happy. But it all happened a long time ago. I cannot go over to Grey Rocks, for I do not know, to tell the truth, in what part of old Ireland it stands. Possibly still, in some forgotten corner of a deserted attic are hidden away the enchanted trunks, no one guessing their fairy powers! Who can say, though I am sure most of us wish that they, or others of their kind, belonged to us. How delightful it would be!

THE END