Once upon a time—it does not matter if it was a long ago "once," or not a long ago one; it does not matter what country it was in, whether far off or near at hand—it was just a "once upon a time," somewhere and somewhen—a little girl sat crying quietly but very sadly, all by herself in a queer room which I will describe. But first I must tell you that she was not crying from temper, or from having been naughty and now being sorry, no, she was just crying because she was lonely and unloved and in a sense friendless. And it had not always been so with her. Some years ago—to her they seemed many, for she was only twelve, but in reality they were but few—she had had kind parents, father and mother both, who loved their only child very dearly, though she was not a very pretty or "taking" little girl. She was small for her age and more thoughtful than clever or amusing. And now that the dear ones whom she belonged to were gone, and her only home as an orphan, and a poor orphan, was with cousins, who, though good worthy people, had adopted her out of duty and did not understand the shy silent child, or care to do so, it is not to be wondered at that she grew shyer and silenter and often seemed what she was really far from being, stupid and slow and even sullen.

Her new home—though "new" it no longer was to her, for it was now nearly four years since Farmer Mac, as we will call him, had brought her back with him from the desolate house where she had been so happy and cared for since her birth—this new home was a large rambling old farm-house. A busy beehive of a place, cheerful enough to its owners and their sons, who were strong and active and hard-working from morning to night, but to Merran a sort of incessant worry and bustle, of loud voices and hurrying steps and noisy laughter, or noisier scolding, not really as cross or angry as it sounded, but startling to her sensitive nerves and childish timidity. So she grew duller and slower and thinner and whiter, till at last those about her began to say she was in a "dwine," and "maybe all for the best if so it were, for—" and at this, voices were lowered—"it's plain to see the child's 'not all there.'"

And her aunt, as she had been told to call the farmer's wife, a strong hearty woman, who had done and meant to do her best for the little maiden, grew tired of worrying about her, and trying to feed her up and turn her into the sort of girl a daughter of her own would have been. Merran did her no credit, and the mixture of shame and pity Dame Mac came to feel about her gradually grew into a kind of constant, half-repressed irritation. She made her work, which of course was right, the child would have pined and "dwined" still more had she been left alone to do nothing but creep about and dream in corners, but the worst of it was that what Merran did, or tried to do, seldom pleased her aunt. As often as not, after telling her to sweep or dust, the dame would snatch the cloths or brush out of her hand, crying that she'd rather do it all herself than see the girl's feckless ways of going about the work.

This had happened the day that this story begins. Merran had had an even worse scolding than usual, and though she set her face hard and said not a word in self-defence, when she got upstairs to the hiding-place where first we see her, she let her tears burst out and sobbed and wept to her heart's content.

There was a special reason for her aunt's vexation with her that morning. Merran had had a soaking in the rain the day before, when she had gone out without an umbrella and with the clean, freshly starched and ironed frock on, which should have lasted her the whole week, as yesterday had been Monday. Now it was not only limp and draggled but on one side a mass of mud, for in her hurry to get home the child had slipped in the lane, always a rather watery one from the overhanging trees and want of sun, and fallen at full length, so of course there was nothing for it but to have the unlucky garment returned to the wash-house six days before it was due there, and as a punishment Merran was now arrayed in an old stuff skirt, too short for her, which she particularly disliked, and a kind of loose jacket or bed-gown once her aunt's, in which, it must be allowed, she did look rather a figure of fun, something like a very shabby Dutch doll.

"And Dirk will see me like this," she said to herself, "after the long time he's been away. He will think me so ugly and untidy, and he's the only person in the world who cares for me at all," and at these thoughts her sobs redoubled.

Dirk was the youngest of the farmer's five sons, the youngest but by no means the favourite or the spoilt one, as a youngest is generally supposed to be. He was not as strong or fine a fellow as his brothers; indeed as a baby he had been so puny and delicate that his mother was half ashamed to let him be seen for fear of its being said or hinted that he was a changeling. There was some reason for this, as the first few months of his life had been spent in much wailing and crying, poor little chap. And even when he got over this stage and grew into boyhood, his position in the family was rather a Cinderella-like one. Yet to those who took the trouble to notice and encourage him, he quickly showed himself to be a sweet-tempered, cheerful and intelligent child. So by degrees things had improved for him, and now when he was expected home from a long sea-voyage on which he had been sent to strengthen him after growing too fast, his relations were ready to welcome him back with heartiness.

He was four years older than Merran, so when she first came to the farm he was only a boy of eleven or twelve, sorry for the orphan, and in his awkward way very kind to her. So naturally she turned to him gratefully. But now he had been absent so long that she felt shy at the thought of meeting him again.

"He'll be big and strong like the others now," she said to herself; "he'll not think me worth speaking to, looking like a beggar-girl as I do. Oh, oh, I wish I could die! I wish it wasn't wrong to wish I could die! I wish I could fly away somewhere, quite, quite away. Everybody dislikes me—even the doll-woman up there in the rain-house seems to be laughing at me, 'cos I'm so ugly and stupid."

What she called the "rain-house" was one of those old-fashioned toy barometers, or weather-tellers, now so seldom seen. It had been discarded long ago, as broken and out of order, years before Merran had come to the farm. She had never seen it except up on a high shelf in the garret, standing among other old things, broken or chipped or useless, and yet which Dame Mac, if ever she remembered them, had not the time to sort or look over. Possibly too, unsentimental as she was, there were certain objects among the "rubbish" which she had not found it in her heart to burn or throw away.

This, the garret, was the queer room which I said I would describe. It was large, as it covered a good part of the first story of the farm-house, which was a long, rather low building, and only one end of this second floor had been plastered and boarded and turned into habitable rooms. And these, where some of the younger sons and farm-servants slept, had a separate staircase; the garret was approached by a ladder-like flight of steps leading to nowhere else. So Merran had long ago appropriated it as a place of refuge for herself when her head ached, or her cousins had been teasing her, or her aunt scolding. She grew to love it dearly. There were queer corners where she could hide; there were one or two small unglazed storm-windows, in whose eaves the swallows built, and from which she had a wide view of the country, in its own way a beautiful part of the world, for though flat and what some call "tame," it was well wooded—the trees in summer and autumn, even in early spring, when the first tender greens began to shimmer and sparkle, were a sight to be seen, so lofty and spreading were they. And not very far off, though too far to be perceived from the lower windows, was a silvery glimmer which Merran knew was the sea.

She knew by heart every inch of the place and everything it contained. She made up stories to herself about the old pieces of furniture—quaint chairs short of a leg or two, a tumble-down chest of drawers, with a marble top, which must, in the far past, have stood in a handsome, perhaps in a beautiful, room; a cracked and blackened mirror or two; a pathetic old cradle on rockers, which seemed asking for a baby to nurse. Merran talked to and pitied them all; sometimes even she sang in her very thin tiny voice to the cradle, "just to make it think it's not empty," she would say to herself as a sort of excuse.

Among the things on the shelf, nothing interested her much except the "rain-house." She had never been able to examine it, for it was too high up for her to reach, and there was nothing in the shape of a ladder in the garret. Now and then she had thought of climbing up by the help of some of the chairs, but they were all too rickety to be of any use. So she contented herself with fancies about the queer little cottage with its two doors, out of one of which the woman could be seen peeping—the man never appeared, and Merran used to picture to herself that perhaps there was a pretty fairy garden behind the house, in which he was always busy working, while his wife kept everything neat and clean inside and cooked the dinner, pretending that the little woman only looked out now and then just to wish her—Merran—good-morning.

But to-day she was too unhappy to have cheerful fancies about anything at all, and she even felt vexed with the doll, imagining that its face was laughing at her as she sat there crying, and as she gazed up at it the fancy increased till she began to feel quite angry.

"You'd cry too, if you were me," she said at last. "You are up there quite safe and snug—nobody to scold you, or order you about. You're not forced to wear ugly dirty old clothes 'cos you got caught in the rain—no, of course, you never come out in the rain. I wish I lived in a country where it was always dry and clean, instead of muddy and wet."

There was some excuse for this wish. For though it was not a hilly part of the world—and one generally imagines that it is in mountainous districts that the weather is the most uncertain—the country where the farm-house, now Merran's home, stood, was extraordinarily trying in this respect. It was very fertile, as it was well watered, but changeable past description, quite enough to try the farmers' tempers, not to speak of little girls'. Never, for two days together, could even the oldest inhabitants, naturally supposed to be the most weather-wise, prophesy with any security what was coming. Barometer after barometer proved all but useless. I believe it was in a fit of irritation that Farmer Mac had knocked over the old "rain-house," and broken it, because he imagined "the pair who tell the weather" had misled him. They had not done so, as you will hear, and it would have been better for him if he had not treated them as he did. But of this Merran knew nothing.

"Yes," she repeated angrily, for it seemed to her that the figure had moved forward a little and was really looking down at her as if it were alive, "yes," she said, "you wouldn't like it, I can tell you, so you needn't stare at me so. If only I could get up to you, I'd tell you things that would make even you, a silly wooden doll, sorry for me."

To her amazement, a voice replied to her.

"Close your eyes," it said, and even if Merran had felt inclined to disobey, I doubt if she could have done so. "Hold out your hands—upwards," it went on, and then the child became aware that whoever it was that spoke was somewhere above her, and again she obeyed, stretching up her hands as far as she could reach. Then for a third time came a command. "Spring," said the voice, "spring, high, into the air. Yes, that is right," and as she gave the leap upwards, instead of at once dropping down again as one naturally would, she felt her fingers grasped, gently but firmly, and in another moment her feet touched ground again, and the same voice now said gently, "Good girl. Now, Merran, you may look about you."

You may be sure she lost no time in availing herself of the permission. But—just at first, she did not feel sure that her eyes were not somehow or other playing her a trick. What she saw, the place where she found herself, seemed so strange; still more so the person who, still holding her by the hands, was looking down at her, smiling.

"Who are you?" said Merran, drawing away a little, for she felt half frightened.

"Don't you know? Look at me well—you have often done so, though you never saw me so plainly before."

It was the same voice, and though sweet and gentle it had to be obeyed. So Merran looked at her, and gradually she began to understand, though vaguely.

"Yes," she said, "I seem to know your face, and your dress, and—and—but yet you can't be the figure in the rain-house. You are so pretty, so very pretty, and even your dress—oh what lovely stuff it's made of."

And so it was. The "doll-woman," as Merran had called her, was attired in a short, queerly spotted red skirt, with a white jacket—only painted wood, of course, to mortal eyes—and a kind of kerchief on her head. Now the skirt had changed into fine, rose-coloured silky stuff, beautifully embroidered all over with tiny daisies; the hard stiff upper dress was of snowy, delicate muslin, such as Merran had never before seen or dreamt of; the head-gear a gauzy scarf of golden tissue; the little feet were shod with slippers of the same lovely red as the skirt, gleaming against the whitest and finest of stockings.

"Oh," exclaimed Merran again, "how pretty, oh how very pretty you are; your dress too! I can't believe you're the doll-woman. I didn't think her at all pretty, and yet——" she felt too puzzled to explain, and no wonder, for the face still smiling at her was so very charming. Blue eyes like forget-me-nots; cheeks like delicate blush roses; lovely bright brown hair, some ends of which came straying out of the graceful head-dress, and above all such a sweet and kindly expression!

"Yet," said the fairy lady, for that this she was the little girl began to feel sure, "yet, Merran, your idea is right. I am the same, and this place where you are standing is what you have called the 'rain-house.' Look about you—this is only the entrance—and then I will take you inside and you shall see my husband, who will welcome you as I do. We have expected you for a long time, but till you spoke to me in your trouble I had no power to bid you come."

Then Merran turned and gazed around her, and strange as it had seemed at first, she began to recognise the roughened walls, the branches wreathed round the porch with its two open doorways, even the flooring on which she stood, painted to look like tiles.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "it is like the rain-house, as much as I could see of it. But—" and then for the first time a new perplexity struck her, "if it really is it," she asked, "how can I be in it? How can I be littler even than you? Why I could have held you in my hand when I was down in the garret, if I could have got you? Have you grown big, or have I grown tiny?"

The Sunshine fairy—we can call her by her name now—laughed, and oh how pretty her laugh was!

"My dear Merran," she said, "it doesn't matter. Perhaps, however, it is less confusing for you to think you have grown tiny. But I needn't puzzle you if you understand that to all intents and purposes you are in fairyland—as much there as it is well for a mortal child to be. Your old rain-house is one of its entrances. Come now, and you shall see more."

She opened a door in the back of the hut—or what seemed the back—and led Merran through. The little girl gave a cry of pleasure. They were standing in the prettiest room you could imagine. It was all brightness and cosiness, the chairs and tables of white wood, the carpet like green moss, the walls hung with soft pink silk, and above all the "window-doors," as Merran called them to herself, opened on to—surely the loveliest garden that ever was seen, "out of fairyland" I was going to say, forgetting that it was, if not fairyland itself, just at the entrance to it. It did not seem a very large garden, or rather one could not quite tell how far it extended, for at the farther end it sloped down rather suddenly and beyond, a great thicket of beautiful trees and bushes gave a misty, vague appearance, through which Merran only caught sight of gleams of sky and sunshine—almost, she fancied, of blue hills far in the distance.

"That must be the real fairyland," she thought. But she did not feel much curiosity about it; the pretty room and lovely garden were too full of delight. And as she gazed, another object attracted her. This was a fountain in the centre of one of the velvety lawns. She had never seen a fountain before, but she was a clever child in her own way, and she remembered pictures which she had seen, of which the dancing silvery drops reminded her.

"Is that a—a waterfall?" she asked.

The fairy lady shook her head.

"Not exactly," she replied, "though for a little girl like you it is a very good guess. No, it is the fountain by which we know about the rain and showers. We send messages far and wide by its means. You could not understand if I explained. But we work very hard. Fairy folk are not idle, as some foolish mortals imagine. See—my husband is coming to speak to you. He and I work together, though behind there in your world people fancy we don't! Rain without sunshine, or sunshine without rain, would make a sad state of things."

"Yes, indeed," said a merry voice, and from behind the mist and dazzle of the fountain Merran perceived a new-comer—a man with a nice brown face, dressed something like a charming old china figure which her aunt greatly treasured—brown velvet jacket and breeches, flowered waistcoat, a scarlet cap on his short curls—altogether quite the right sort of person to match the lovely Sunshine fairy.

He doffed his cap as he came forward, Merran gazing at him in surprise. She would much have liked to ask him how ever he managed to keep so beautifully clean and smart if he was always working away at the water, but she felt rather shy, and only gazed.

"So you have come at last, little maiden," he said pleasantly. "We have been waiting here a good while for you."

"So you have come at last, little maiden."

Merran felt greatly astonished and puzzled.

"Yes," said the Sunshine fairy, "our queen knows all about you. She always cares for lonely or unhappy children more than for any others, though they may not be aware of it. And she told us to stay here till the time came for us to be of service to you, poor little Merran. Not that it matters much to us where we live. Rain and I can do our work wherever we are, and move our abode in less time than it would take you to run downstairs."

"I wish you would stay here always and let me come and live with you," pleaded Merran. "Nobody cares for me down there," and she nodded towards where she supposed the farm must be. "Couldn't you—couldn't your queen turn me into a fairy for good? I shouldn't ever want to be a real little girl again, and nobody would mind. They'd just think I'd got lost—they'd never imagine I'd gone to fairyland."

"Would nobody mind—would nobody miss you?" the Sunshine fairy asked gently.

Merran's eager face fell. She hesitated.

"P'r'aps Dirk would have minded once, before he went away," she said ruefully. "But not now—oh no—they say he's grown so fine and strong like the others. He won't care for me any more, I'm sure. That's another reason why I wish you'd let me stay with you and never go back to the farm again. Aunt says I grow stupider and stupider, and uglier too, I daresay she thinks, though she doesn't exactly say so. And just look at me"—she held out her shabby old skirt as she spoke—"this horrid dress is only fit for a beggar girl, and I'll have to wear it all the week, though it wasn't my fault that I dirtied my nice clean one. The lane was so slippery, and so muddy. It had been raining so hard."

The Sunshine fairy smiled.

"Yes," she said, "but you don't know what it would be like in your country if it didn't rain a good deal."

"I know it has to, of course," said Merran, "but if only we knew better, everything would be easier. Uncle Mac often says there never was such changeable weather as we have. I don't believe he'd be so cross and surly if he wasn't always worrying about what the sky's like and what it's going to do. And if I knew, I'd take care not to go out without an umbrella, if it was going to be wet, nor along that muddy lane."

The Rain fairy had gone back to the fountain while Merran was speaking, and by this time she had quite lost all feelings of shyness with the pretty Sunshine lady. Just then the sound of the rushing water stopped suddenly. The fairy looked up and called out. The words seemed strange, and Merran could not understand them, nor the reply which came back. But Sunshine turned to her.

"You will find bright weather on your return," she said, "and I promise you a pleasant surprise as well. So do not be low-spirited, little Merran. You have been watched over in ways you know not of, and you may cheer up from now."

But it was difficult for the child to believe this all at once.

"Oh mayn't I stay with you, dear kind fairy?" she pleaded again. "It wouldn't matter to me how the time passed. I shouldn't be like little Bridget, who found her friends all gone, for you see I should never want to go back at all. Oh do let me stay. Can't you turn me into a fairy altogether?" she repeated. "I'd be your servant or anything you like."

Still Sunshine shook her head.

"No, my little maiden," she replied. "What you ask is impossible. You can never become one of us—a human child you are, a woman you must before long become. But a happy woman you may be, and to help you to be happy is the task that has been appointed to us. Long ago, but for love and pity for you, the old rain-house, as you call it, would have fallen to pieces, and we should have deserted the farm altogether, as indeed its master deserved after his treatment of us. He has been punished for it, however, and now by your means great and unusual good fortune may be before him and his. And this I will now explain to you, but on one condition."

Merran felt a little frightened.

"Is it something very difficult that I have to do?" she asked timidly.

The Sunshine lady shook her head.

"No, indeed," she replied. "It is simply to keep carefully two gifts which we have prepared for you, and to use them as I will describe. But—there is the condition."

"What is it?" said Merran eagerly. "I'm sure you wouldn't want me to do anything wrong, or to promise anything I can't be sure of being able for, so I do promise now, this very minute, even before you tell me."

She was rewarded by a smile.

"You do right to trust me," said the fairy. "All I bind you to is this—to tell no one of the magic gifts, to keep your possession of them a complete secret, until——"

"Till when?" Merran interrupted.

"Till you are grown up, and only then if you marry and love your husband dearly. For I know that without complete confidence, little rifts are sadly apt to come between even those who love each other most truly."

"I don't think I'll ever marry," said the poor little maiden. "I'm too ugly and stupid. But still, if ever I did, I know I'd love my husband, 'cos you see it would be so kind of him to love me. And then it would be nice to tell him the secret, if it would do him good too. Oh I do wonder what it is you're going to give me!"

Fairy Sunshine slipped her hand into the front of her bodice and drew out something. At the same moment the Rain brownie, or gnome—no, he was too handsome to be a gnome—or whatever you like to call him, came forward again, and he too was holding something. Together the pair presented their gifts, and Merran gave a little cry of delight as she saw what they were. One was a tiny umbrella, a real umbrella, not a sham toy one, or a gold or silver "charm," such as ladies hang by their watch-chains, no, a real, exquisitely made and finished umbrella of green silk and with a beautifully carved ivory handle.

"I have made it myself," said the Rain man. "It will never wear out and never lose its power, unless you forget your promise."

"And for my gift I say the same," echoed Fairy Sunshine. Hers was even prettier, for it was a parasol, smaller of course than the umbrella, but just as beautifully perfect—of rose-coloured gauze, lined with white, and the handle was in the form of a daisy, of silver and enamel.

Merran was silent with pleasure and admiration.

"Oh thank you, thank you," she was beginning, but the fairy stopped her. "Wait a moment," she said, "wait till you learn the real value of these two things. They are not merely pretty toys. It would be foolish to give them to you if they were nothing better than that. But they are much better. We have endowed them with fairy power. See here—if you want to know what the weather is going to be, you must test them—by yourself, of course, and when no one can see you, for magic gifts belong to their owner alone. You must test by trying to open them. If the umbrella refuses to spread itself, you will know that it is not going to rain. If so, turn to the parasol. If it opens quite widely you may count on plenty of sunshine; if only partly, then though the day will be dry, it will not be very bright. But you must be gentle; it would be useless to try to force either of them, for then they would break and you would have lost them for ever."

Merran's eyes were gleaming with delight.

"I will be very gentle, I promise you. Oh it will be splendid always to know about the weather, and uncle and all of them will never again think me stupid or useless if they find I can foretell it. It will make them much nicer to me, won't it?"

"Yes," replied her friend. "That is the reason of our giving you this secret power. But I must tell you a little more. You must not only be gentle in touch, you must have gentle feelings in your heart, otherwise you will fail. Neither umbrella nor parasol will open if you apply to them with any unkind feeling or wish. For instance, if the farmer or his sons have been sharp or rough to you and you wish it would rain just to vex them, it would be no good at all for you to try to open either—and if your aunt has been cross to you some very hot day——"

"She often is when it is very hot," interrupted Merran. "More than when it's cold. She gets headaches in summer."

"Just so—then if you take hold of the parasol with a secret hope that the sun is going to blaze away all day, without any cooling summer rain, so that the dame will be punished for scolding you—no—it would be no good at all! Inside your heart must be the hope that the wishes of others shall be fulfilled, whether it come to pass or not; otherwise all the magic will be gone for the time," and at this Merran looked grave, very grave, for she had known what it was to long for power to annoy others. But the fairy's next words cheered her. "I don't think there is much fear of your having those unkind feelings," she said. "I know that you are going to be a much happier little girl than ever before, and remember to begin with, I have promised you a pleasant surprise when you go home to-day."

"I wonder what it will be," thought Merran, and she felt so anxious to know, that it took away part of her reluctance to leave the charming "rain-house," as just then the Sunshine fairy, taking her hand, added, "I will show you now how to find your way back."

They were turning to enter the house again when a sudden thought struck Merran, who was carrying her new treasures with the greatest care.

"Where shall I hide them?" she asked anxiously. "I am so afraid of any one finding them, or taking them, and there's nowhere in the little room where I sleep that I can lock up. Aunt comes in any time and looks all about, to see that I keep things tidy."

"Quite right of her," said the fairy. "I can help you to keep your treasures in perfect safety, much more so than if you locked them up in the strongest box that ever was made. Hold them out—one in each hand."

Merran did so—the fairy touched them both, first the umbrella, then the parasol, murmuring some word or words that the child could not hear.

"Now," she said, "I have made them become invisible to all eyes but your own, or those of the one to whom you may some day confide your secret, as you have permission to do. See—just to prove it to you, I will for a moment make them invisible even to yourself. Shut your eyes."

Merran did so.

"Open," said the Sunshine lady.

Merran obeyed, but gave a cry of dismay.

"They've gone, they've gone," she exclaimed, "and yet I didn't feel you touching them."

The fairy laughed.

"Wink your eyes," she said. "Now look again," and there sure enough were the magic gifts safe and sound.

Merran laughed too.

"So you don't need to be afraid of any one stealing them," said her friend.

"N-no," said the child. "But still—where had I best keep them? For you see in my own room they might get knocked or brushed away, even without being seen?"

"How about the garret?" asked the fairy. "No one ever interferes with you there—they are used to your playing there by yourself, aren't they?"

"Oh yes," Merran replied. "Only sometimes aunt goes up to look over things, or dust a little. Why the other day she said she was going to throw away the rain-house, as it was no use. I was glad she didn't, for I have always liked seeing it. And fancy! if she had, I should never have come up here and seen this lovely place and you, dear Sunshine fairy, or the Rain fairy, or got your magic gifts! How dreadful to think of!" But her friend only smiled.

"She could not have done it," she said. "She had no power to touch it while we were still here, while it was still one of the secret entrances to fairyland. But as to a hiding-place for your charms," she went on. "Have you ever peeped up at the eaves above the little storm-window where you are so fond of sitting?"

"Yes, often," said Merran. "There is an old swallows' nest there, but," and she shook her head sadly, "they have quite deserted it for the last two years. I used to love to watch them and to hear their twittering."

"Nevertheless the old nest will serve your purpose perfectly," said the fairy lady. "Hide your treasures in it; you can easily reach up without any danger of falling, as there is a good stretch of flat roof outside. And then, if by any chance you were seen there, it would only be supposed that you were looking out of the window at the view—trying to catch the peep of the sea, as you often do."

"Yes, yes," replied Merran, greatly pleased. "What a good idea, and how clever of you to think of it! How do you know so much about me and the garret and everything, dear Sunshine fairy? I suppose you really could see me when you were the little toy woman in the rain-house? But it won't be easy to believe she's you! You are so pretty compared with her. Mayn't I come up here again and see you as you really are?"

The fairy shook her head.

"Our task here is accomplished," she said. "You will not need to puzzle about the toy woman, and how she and I can be the same and yet not the same. And this way into fairyland will now be closed. But when the sunshine peeps in at your window and lights up your fair hair and puts some colour into your cheeks, you may believe, my little maiden, that I am kissing you. Or when some drops of rain make you start by their cool touch, you may say to yourself that the Rain fairy is sending you his greeting. Both of us, first one and then the other, working together. That is how it is and should be. And now," she went on, "we will see you safe home again," and glancing up, Merran saw that beside the lovely lady stood the picturesque figure of the Rain fairy, with his dark but kindly face. "Together," for once, "the pair that tell the weather."

They turned and entered the pretty room, passing through it, however, till at the other side, where a door led into the familiar "rain-house," or hut, they stood still, beckoning to Merran, who had followed them in silence, feeling excited and happy, and yet a little sad. Then each took one of her hands—her gifts were safely nestling inside her bodice—and whispering softly, in a sort of musical murmur, which made her close her eyes half sleepily:

"Farewell, little Merran, farewell. In sunshine or in rainy weather, little maiden, fare thee well."

And before she had time to look round or wonder what was going to happen to her, she felt herself gently pushed over the edge of the rain-house, like a fledgling which the parent birds are training to fly, and though she had no wings, fly or flutter she did, down, down, till she found herself standing safely on the floor of the old garret, just in front of the storm-window, in her favourite nook.

She rubbed her eyes. Was it all a dream?

She might almost have thought so, but—feeling in her bodice for her handkerchief, her fingers touched something, and she drew out the fairy gifts. Yes—there they were all right, and evidently changed in size like her own small self, for they lay in her hands in the same way as above in the fairy house, "and up there," said Merran, "I must have been much, much littler than I am now, for I could go in and out quite easily."

The thought made her glance at the high shelf where ever since she could remember had stood the toy hut, with the woman's figure just peeping out. But what she now saw made her start.

The rain-house had fallen—its walls and roof were in pieces, as if a fairy earthquake had shattered them! Merran felt half inclined to cry, but before she had decided if she should do so or not she caught sight of a tiny figure peering at her from behind the rubbish. It was the toy woman, just as she had always been, dress and all, but as Merran gazed, the stiff wooden doll seemed to melt away, giving place to the lovely Sunshine fairy, who smiled and waved her hand as if in farewell, and the little girl, feeling that this was indeed her last sight of the so long unknown friends, who had watched over and cared for her, allowed some tears to trickle down her face unchecked, while she waved and kissed her hand in return till the pretty vision disappeared and nothing was left to tell her that her visit had not been all a dream, except the broken bits of painted wood and cardboard which she had called the rain-house!

No—I am wrong—there were her magic gifts! She looked at them with delight; they seemed even more dainty and charming than when she had first been given them, and then, remembering the Sunshine fairy's instructions, she climbed up on her stool till she reached the top of the small window and could touch the old nest, still there, and still quite whole. It was a splendid hiding-place. Without any difficulty Merran gently pushed the umbrella and parasol in, through the moss, till she felt they were quite secure, just leaving the handles out enough for her readily to catch hold of them whenever she needed to do so.

Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, she sat down again in her usual corner and thought over her wonderful adventures quietly for some minutes. Suddenly the remembrance struck her of a hint the fairy lady had given her, about a pleasant surprise in store for her on her return, and full of curiosity as to what it could be Merran jumped up and made her way across the garret and down the narrow staircase to the floor below.

"It can't be about Dirk's coming," she said to herself, "for I knew that already. And—that wouldn't be a pleasant thing, for I shall be ashamed for him to see me in this horrid old dress," and she glanced at herself disconsolately.

But just then she heard a voice calling her, a well-known voice, her aunt's.

"Merran, Merran," it said, "where are you, child? Come quick. I want you."

And something in the tone made the child feel that she was not going to be scolded. It sounded much kinder than usual.

"Aunt must be in a good humour," she thought, and indeed so it was. Nothing makes people feel better tempered and pleased with themselves than the consciousness of having done a kindly action.

"I'm coming, auntie," Merran answered brightly, though in her heart she was not without misgiving. "I hope it isn't that Dirk has arrived already," she thought, with again the mortifying remembrance of her ugly dress.

The dame was standing at the foot of the staircase holding up something for the little girl to see. It was the unfortunate frock, already washed and ironed and looking quite pretty, for it really was a nice garment, white with pink sprigs and flowers running over it, and a neat frill at the neck. It was Merran's favourite frock—for everyday wear, of course, that is to say. Her Sunday one was a cornflower blue merino, and she was very proud of it, especially as it and indeed most of her clothes had been made out of those left by her own young mother, so that on the whole it was not often that the orphan child looked like a small Cinderella.

"Well, what do you say to this?" said her aunt with great pride, waving the frock about to show it off the better.

"Auntie!" cried Merran, who for a moment had been struck dumb with delight and astonishment. "Have you really washed it and ironed it and all, already? Oh how good of you! Now I shan't be ashamed for Dirk to see me. Oh, auntie, I don't know how to thank you."

"Mind you don't get it dirtied again, then," said the dame, "and get yourself tidied as quick as you can, for there's no saying how soon the boy may be here. It was pretty tiresome, you know, for you to go and tumble into the mud to-day of all days. But I didn't want Dirk, who's always been so good to you, to find you looking such a little drab."

"Of course not," said Merran. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be very careful. It's getting to be quite a fine day now; the sun's come out, and it's not going to rain again," she added confidently. For I should have mentioned that before hiding away her new treasures she had tried in vain to open the fairy umbrella, whereas the parasol spread itself out like a flower with but the gentlest touch.

"I hope not," said her aunt, "but there's no saying, and the master's in a sad fix about the hay—when to start it. Never was such a place as this for not knowing what the weather's to be. And I would like it to look bright for Dirk when he first sees his home again, after the beautiful countries he's been in, where the sun's always shining, so they say. Though how things can grow without rain passes me!"

"It says in my lesson-books at school that there's places where it rains straight on for a good bit and then it's fine and hot for a good bit," said Merran.

"Maybe that's how it is," said her aunt. "Well, Dirk'll tell us all about it and the other things he's seen. Now run off, child, and change your frock."

Away flew Merran, her spirits higher than for many a long day, for it was not often that the dame talked to her so pleasantly, and as she ran off she repeated her prophecy. "You'll see, auntie," she said. "It's not going to rain at all to-day. It'll be lovely weather."

And so it proved. The few clouds that had still looked somewhat threatening, gradually dispersed; when the farmer came in he too seemed very cheery.

"If this weather holds on for a while, we'll do famously," he said. "A good thing for Dirk to be back. We'll be none the worse for another pair of strong arms, such as I hope his are by now," and almost as he spoke, there was the sound of wheels approaching the farm-house,—for one of the elder brothers had driven in the market-cart to meet Dirk at the village where the coach was to drop him,—and in another minute in came the traveller himself, eager to greet and be greeted.

And a hearty welcome awaited him.

He had grown and improved in every way. In fact he was no longer the ugly duckling of the family, but bid fair in a year or two to rival his stalwart brothers. So, naturally, of course, his parents were delighted.

"Your uncle has done well by you, and that's a fact," said the farmer, giving the boy a hearty slap on the shoulders. "All the same, I hope he's not given you a liking for his way of life."

For the uncle with whom Dirk had been seeing the world for the last year or two, for the benefit of his health, was a sea-faring man—the captain and owner of a small trading vessel.

Dirk laughed, but shook his head.

"No fear of that," he replied. "I like the sea well enough, but I don't want to be a sailor. No, father, I'm a farmer, at least going to be one I hope."

"That's all right," said his father. "And there's no life to compare with the life of the fields, to my mind. There's just one thing to complain of, especially in these parts, and that is the uncertain weather. No telling any day what it may change to—and none of the glasses as I've ever come across is much good, if any. And this year's been one of the changeablest I remember. I wonder why it's so, for we've no hills close about. Maybe it's through being near the sea. I've half a mind to send for a strand of seaweed and hang it in the porch, and see what that'll tell."

"Not much good—it changes when the weather does, but not far ahead," said Dirk. Then a sudden idea struck him. "Mother," he went on, "long ago there used to be an old-fashioned kind of weather-teller, up in the garret, do you remember? And not long ago, in Holland, where uncle had to take a cargo, I came across one just like it, and the goodwife of the house told me it never failed them. Suppose we get out our one?"

The dame shook her head.

"Strange you should speak of it, Dirk," she replied. "It's many a day since I've given it a thought, till this very afternoon—when—" and here she gave a little smile half of apology for her own childishness, "I went up to the garret to look out of the end window, which has such a good view of the road, to see if the cart and you boys were in sight. And glancing up at the shelf, I missed something I was used to see there. It was the old toy hut with the man and the woman. It's all in pieces—just a crumbled heap, and no man nor woman to be seen. Maybe the cat's knocked it down."

"Then it's no good," said Dirk, "for I don't think they make them now—not in England, anyway.—But, mother," he continued, "I've not seen little Merran yet. Where is she, and is she all right?"

The dame started.

"To be sure. I was forgetting about her," she said, "and she was here not five minutes ago. I told her to stay—not that she needed telling when it was to see you again, Dirk. Merran, child," she called, raising her voice, whereupon the little girl came forward shyly from the deep recess of the old-fashioned window where she had been partly hidden.

"I did stay, auntie," she said. "I was only waiting for you and uncle to see Dirk first," and as she spoke, she held out her hand to the new-comer. He took it, but also stooped down to kiss her. "You've grown a bit, quite a tidy bit, little Merran," he said, "and you're looking well too—more colour in her cheeks, and so fresh and smart. Is that a new frock she's on, eh, mother?"

His praise went far to reward the dame for the trouble she had given herself. She smiled, and catching Merran's eye, the smile was returned.

"She's growing a big girl now, you see," said the aunt. "Old enough to be always tidy, and beginning to be handy too, we'll hope."

"Yes," said the farmer, turning from the window where he had been standing looking out. "You can be useful in the hay-field now, child. If I did but know what the weather's like to be to-morrow, so as to begin!"

"Uncle," exclaimed Merran eagerly. "It's going to be fine, very fine all to-day, and I'm almost sure all to-morrow, and I think for a lot of days."

Her uncle glanced at her and gave a little laugh.

"I hope you're right, child," he said. "But how should you know? You can't be a weather prophet at your age!"

"I can't tell you how I know," began Merran, reddening a little, "but I feel——" and just then Dirk broke in, and what he said was very lucky, as, both then and afterwards, it served the good purpose of saving her from cross-questioning about her curious power.

"Don't be too sure of that, father," he said. "There's queer things we can't explain, but true for all that. I've seen a good many of them at sea, and in the far-off places I've been at. There was one old sailor who always dreamt before we put in at any port who'd find letters and who wouldn't, and he never was wrong. And away in the far East, as for prophets!—my! I could tell you stories as'd seem like magic. Over here we're thicker-headed, and maybe it's just as well. But for nature things, there needn't be much doubt but what some are far cuter than others, and maybe Merran's one who has the weather gift."

The little girl glanced at him gratefully, though she did not speak. In her heart she was saying to herself, "I shouldn't wonder if the dear Sunshine fairy hasn't put it into his head to say these things."

As for the farmer and his wife, they were both much impressed, and when an hour or two later the sun set in a glow of crimson and rose, the child's pleasant augury seemed still more trustworthy.

And the next morning proved its correctness.

Little did any one suspect that long before the rest of the household had begun to think of awaking, in the early summer dawn, Merran had crept up to her garret, and there, half trembling with excitement, though much more of hope than fear, had drawn out her magic gifts to test them afresh. Nor was she disappointed. The parasol flew open in her hands, almost before she touched it; the umbrella resisted every effort, though of course she avoided any rough force. It might have been glued or nailed together!

"Fine!" exclaimed Merran joyfully. "Of course it's going to be fine all day—as bright and sunshiny as any one could wish. And after to-day too, and for some time to come I am almost certain. There's something in the feeling of the dear things that I can't describe—I'm getting to understand them. The parasol seems to jump at me in a sort of assuring way that must mean even more than just for to-day, and the umbrella—you are a determined fellow, Mr. Umbrella!"

She laughed merrily in her delight and satisfaction, and the brightness in her face when she went downstairs to breakfast made the others smile at her.

Happily for us all, good spirits are quite as infectious as low ones, if not indeed more so.

"I'm glad I washed her frock for her yesterday," thought the dame, taking credit to herself for the girl's pleasant looks. "Children are easy up and easy down. Maybe I've been a bit too sharp with her now and then."

And Dirk thought to himself that poor little Merran had certainly greatly improved, and even the other brothers refrained, half unconsciously, from teasing or jeering at her, as they had too often done.

The farmer came in after they were all seated at table. He had been having a good look at the sky, and his eyes fell on the small prophetess, with approval.

"You've been right, Merran," he said. "It does look now as if we were in for a spell of real summer weather. And who'd have thought it this time yesterday. If only it lasts till we get the hay in."

"It will, uncle, it will. You'll see," said she. "Just you trust me a bit. I'll know, I'm sure, when it's going to change."

And strange to say, no one laughed at her or her predictions. On the contrary, all of the family seemed impressed. Dirk's remarks the evening before were not forgotten.

And for some time to come Merran had no reason for misgiving. Morning after morning the lovely fairy parasol flew open at her tiniest touch; morning after morning the umbrella refused to yield in even the faintest degree. So the Seaview Farm hay was mown, and dried, and stacked under the most favourable circumstances, and more than one of the neighbouring yeomen wished that they had been as quick about it as Mac and his sons, though at the first start most of the wiseacres had told them they would find it had been better to put off a while.

And once it was all safe, there came a change. One warm bright morning, Merran looked up at the sky silently and then turned to her uncle.

"It's going to rain," she said. "Before night it'll be raining heavily."

The farmer glanced in his turn at the blue, almost cloudless heavens.

"Not a bit of it," he said. "You're out for once, child. No sign whatever of rain. It's market-day, and I'm off. I've got a good bit of business to see to, to-day, at the town. No, no, the weather's all right. You'll see. I may be a trifle late, dame. Don't you be uneasy."

"You'll take your overcoat, anyway, father," said his wife, who was not so unbelieving in Merran's foresight as her husband.

He replied by a hearty laugh.

"Overcoat," he repeated. "Bless me, what are you thinking of? Overcoat in weather like this! Why, it's as settled as can be—warm and fine, like it's been for the last week or two. Couldn't be more settled."

"That's a new word to use for these parts," said Dirk quietly. Merran said nothing. The dame turned to her sons.

"Which of you's going with father?" she said, adding in a whisper to Dirk, who was next her at table, "You'll see to it if you go," she said, "see that he takes his coat. Think of his rheumatism if he gets soaked."

But Dirk shook his head, which was explained by the farmer's next words.

"None of 'em," he said, in reply to the goodwife's enquiry. "There's too much to do at home just now for more than me to be spared. You've all got your work cut out for you—eh, boys?"

Then followed some field and crops talk, and no more was said about the weather, and soon after Farmer Mac set off.

Merran felt sorry and a little anxious. She knew that there would have been no use in her saying anything more, for her uncle was one of the most obstinate of men, but several times that day she made her way up to the garret to test her strange barometers, half in hopes that the bad weather would hold off till the farmer was safe home again. The first time the result was much the same as it had been on her early morning visit. The parasol opened slowly and refused to spread out far. The umbrella responded to her touch as it had never before done—yet it did not spring apart, but gradually allowed itself to stretch a certain amount.

"That means," said Merran, "that the rain's not coming just yet," for she was growing curiously sensitive to the shades of forecast in the magic toys. It was almost as if they spoke to her. But the second trial, later in the day, told of nearer approach of the change, and an hour or two after that, when Merran's anxiety and in a sense, too, her curiosity lured her again to her garret window, the parasol was as if glued together, while the umbrella flew open in her hands, like a bird eager for flight.

Merran felt at the same time satisfied and yet distressed.

"It shows how true they are, and that I can correctly understand them," she said to herself. "Still I do wish poor uncle could get home safely before the rain begins, for evidently it will be very heavy indeed. I wish he had listened to me this morning, but I didn't like to be too certain, for if I had foretold it wrongly they'd have lost faith in me, and I couldn't feel quite sure if it meant that the weather would change so soon."

But even as she reached up to restore her treasures to their hiding-place in the deserted nest, something cold fell on her hand and made her start. The rain had begun!

She made her way downstairs feeling somewhat distressed, for she was by nature affectionate and most ready to sympathise, and of late her aunt had been so much kinder and gentler that the little maid's heart was quite won over.

She was standing by the window, gazing out at the fast increasing downpour, when the dame came in. "Supper-time, Merran," she said briskly, though there was no ill-temper in her tone. "We must be setting the table."

Merran turned with a little start.

"I'm so sorry——" she was beginning, when her aunt interrupted her. "Don't look so scared, child," she said, "I wasn't for scolding you."

"And I wasn't forgetting about supper, auntie," replied the little girl. "It's only that I was wishing poor uncle had got safe back before the rain began——"

"Why," exclaimed the dame, interrupting a second time, as she hurried to the window, "you don't mean to say it's started already? I was so busy in the laundry I hadn't noticed. Deary, deary," she went on, "but it is coming down! And the master without his coat—he'll be soaked through and through. I wish he'd listened to you, child, that I do, though I was hoping it'd hold off till night."

"I wish so too, auntie," said Merran. "I'd rather have been in the wrong than that poor uncle should suffer through me being in the right."

"I'm sure you would," said the dame heartily. Then she stood silent for a moment or two, gazing in distress at the rain, which by this time was indeed a case of "cats and dogs," really waterspouts. The anxious wife sighed deeply.

"He's in for it and no mistake," she said. "Men's that obstinate. Well, well, all we can do is to have hot water ready and make him change his things at once. I'll fetch some of his clothes down to air them—no, I'll do better still, we'll light a small fire upstairs, for, summer though it is, the evening's very chilly. And Merran, child, from now I'll stick to you as my weather-glass. It's a wonderful gift you've got, and we'll do well to believe in it."

"I think so too, auntie," said Merran. "I really can foretell about it," and her quiet tone impressed her hearers still more, for by this time Dirk and one of his brothers had hurried in.

Supper was an uncomfortable meal that evening. They were all anxious, for they all remembered the father's weary weeks of rheumatic fever the year before, and one or other of the "boys" kept running to the door to look out, or to listen for the sound of wheels, not easy to distinguish through the torrents of rain. And Merran was up and downstairs every few minutes to see that the fire was all right, and the clothes safely getting aired. And at last he came, poor man!

He looked very white and shivery, and, to tell the truth, rather ashamed of himself, when he came in. For besides the miserable state of drenchedness he was in, he had to own that the discomfort was all thanks to his obstinacy, and distrust of the little "weather prophet's" warning. Few elderly men of any class, more especially a self-willed old farmer like Mac, would like to allow that they had been outdone in wisdom by a child, but on the whole Merran's uncle was more ready to give in than might have been expected.

"I'll listen to you next time, child," he said. "That I promise you. And to you too, dame," turning to his wife, "for it wouldn't have been so bad if I'd taken my thick coat. Where Merran gets her weather knowledge from beats me," he went on, "but there it is, and that's a fact. I'm not the only one that's been caught in the rain to-day, I can tell you. For at market all the talk was of the fine weather lasting a good bit longer."

"I daresay it'll come back again," said Merran. "But I do wish the storm had held off till you were safe home, poor uncle."

"And so do I," said Dirk, who was busy helping the farmer to throw off his streaming garments. "As it is, father," he added in a lower voice, "you'll do well to keep that promise. I tell you I've seen queerish things in my wanderings—things beyond us to explain, and there's no doubt in my mind that little Merran has got this strange power, and lucky for us that she has."

The farmer looked much impressed, for since his travels Dirk had come to be looked upon as an authority.

"You don't think," said old Mac hesitatingly, "that there's anything uncanny about it. I wouldn't like the maid to get called a witch, though the days of ill-treating such are past and gone, thank Heaven."

Dirk did not reply directly.

"There's things we can't explain," he repeated. "There's good mysteries and bad mysteries. But Merran's all right. I'd trust her to use her extra sense for kindness, so she'll earn no ill-will by it."

By this time the farmer, who was unusually meek, had been put to bed and made to drink hot possets and all the rest of it, in hopes of warding off another bad rheumatic attack. To some extent the treatment was successful, but not entirely. The poor man had to keep his room for over a fortnight, which was very trying, as harvest was by no means over. Still, two weeks' illness is less than two months, and on the whole he bore his troubles patiently, and one thing which made this attack of his less wearisome both to himself and to his family than those that had laid him up before was the great fancy he had taken to Merran—his "weather maiden," as he had dubbed her. She proved to be an excellent little nurse, and the farmer was never as content and patient as when she was sitting by him, chatting cheerfully, as she was now able to do, since she was no longer frightened of being scolded, or reading aloud some of her favourite stories. For she was naturally far from stupid. Every morning and evening the invalid was sure to ask her about the weather, and, as we know, she was always ready with a forecast, which never once proved mistaken. Every day, many times a day indeed, did she say to herself how different her life now was from what it had been before her wonderful visit to the old "rain-house."

The farmer recovered; the harvest proved a good one, time passed and winter came again, and with every season Merran's fame spread. All over that corner of the country she came to be talked of as the "weather maiden," her uncle's name for her, and many a farmer, many a peasant, many a goodwife came to consult her and to hear her predictions. Her fame spread farther indeed than among her own people. The squire's lady never fixed the day for her summer parties or for the school children's feast without looking in to ask little Merran's opinion. For by long practice and delicate care in handling her magic gifts the girl came to foretell for days beforehand which of them—umbrella or parasol, "Rain-man" or "Sunshine fairy"—was to be in the ascendant.

Time passed, weeks became months, months years, as is the appointed way in this round old world of ours. From a plain, unnoticeable little girl Merran grew into a tall sweet-faced maiden. She was not exactly pretty, she was quiet and rather serious, but her dark eyes, though somewhat dreamy in expression, were very charming, and the tones of her voice were very musical. So she was not without admirers, you may be sure. Many a man would have liked to marry her—some among them, no doubt, influenced by the knowledge of her wonderful gift, for of course the possession of it could not be kept a secret if she had wished, and she was far from desiring this. On the contrary, her kind heart rejoiced when she was able to use it for the advantage of her neighbours as well as for the relations whom she now loved as if they were her very own, and who on their side loved her.

But she kept her secret, faithful to the promise she had given to the lovely Sunshine fairy, though there were times when she longed to share it with one in whom she could safely confide. And now and then at intervals she had a strange feeling that Dirk suspected something, for she sometimes caught his eyes fixed on her with a kind of veiled enquiry, and once he said in a low voice, with a curious smile, "Little Merran, you are not like the rest of us."

"Are you, yourself, Dirk?" she replied. "There are things you know and feel that the others don't—the voices in the wind, the burden of the birds' songs, the secrets of the restless waves—oh, Dirk, if one lived a thousand years, there would still be mysteries upon mysteries of beautiful things to learn!"

Then she grew shy again, for she was always quiet and timid and wondered how she had found courage to say so much. But Dirk seemed pleased.

"Yes," he said, nodding his head gently. "Maybe we are a bit different from most of those about us. You, anyway, Merran. I've seen strange lands and beautiful places, but you—you give me the feeling that once upon a time you must have had a glimpse of real fairyland."

Merran grew red at this, but she made no reply.

Only to herself she said, "I wish—I do wish I might tell him," and then she grew still redder when the words of the Sunshine fairy returned to her memory that only to one person might she ever reveal her secret.

"And that one will never be my fate," thought the girl sadly. "Dirk will never care for me in that way, and never could I care for any one but him."

Whereas on his side, Dirk said to himself that he must never hope to win the sweet weather maiden for himself. "Why, half the young fellows in the country-side, and old ones too, are ready to woo her if she'd let them! They think she'd bring good luck to her husband, and so she would. But it's not for that I'd care for her—it's that I love her for her own self, luck or no luck."

And one day—one happy day—had the Sunshine fairy whispered to him to take courage, I wonder?—he determined to risk it, and told the maiden his hopes and fears, and found how little reason for the latter there had been, and the two young things, who had drawn to each other from their first meeting, before long were married, carrying with them to a home of their own the magic gifts, now, to Merran's delight, her husband's as much as her own.

Good fortune was theirs. Whatever Dirk undertook, whatever Merran planned, prospered. And that it should be so, they deserved. For they remained kindly and unselfish, ever ready to help others less happy than themselves, grateful for their blessings, patient under trials, of which, as life cannot be always sunshine, they had their share. They lived, I was told, to a good old age. What became of the fairy treasures, I cannot say. Whether they were handed down to their children, or whether they were whisked back to fairyland, I know not, not any more than I know what has become of all the toy "rain-houses" which in our grand-parents' times were so often to be seen. The world is growing too clever for the fairies, I fear, unless perhaps, unseen and unsuspected, they are still behind the scenes in some of the marvels and inventions all around us. Who can say?

And by the bye, I have heard it whispered that in a certain out-of-the-way corner of this dear old country there lives a family whose sons and daughters have a curious gift of "weather wisdom." Maybe they are the descendants of our Dirk and his Merran?