Fairies Afield

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Giles was looking very thoughtful.

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

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

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

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

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

Michael really laughed with pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe," was all she said.

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

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

"Yes, father?" she said questioningly.

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

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

The farmer seemed a little taken aback.

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