ingle, and looked into Andy's face with those keen penetrating eyes of his, and as he did so his thoughts, almost in spite of himself, travelled back to that Christmas only a few months gone by, when he had told the child the fairy legend, and when Andy himself had slept and seen fairy-land. Cuileagh Clanmorris was superstitious, as were most of the peasantry of Storport, and as he thought over these things he shuddered—for this hard-working, coarse-natured man had come to love the quaint little old-fashioned child. Night after night now he brought with him lumps of white bread and gave them to Andy, and as the child stood between his grandfather's knees and munched at the bread, Cuileagh tried to tell him other stories to divert his mind. But Andy took no interest in any but one thing, his thoughts constantly reverted to the old theme.

"I wonder," he said one night, as he looked into Cuileagh's face and munched at Cuileagh's bread, "I wonder if fairies always eat bread like this same !'

"Maybe," answered Cuileagh, "they're dainty people, they're sayin', and fond o' swate things."

"Then surely," continued the child, "they would give me bread too?" "If ye were a fairy!"

"And grandfather?"

"Aye, aye," murmured the old man, and he nodded his head and looked at the child with a vacant gaze, while Cuileagh murmured to himself, "Maybe 'tis a fairy that he is afther all."

More and more pathetic grew that little pinched face of Andy's; yet the paler his cheeks became, the more peevish he seemed to grow. There was something very wrong indeed, for once or twice Andy spoke even to his grandfather in a querulous tone. The old man was dimly conscious of the change, though he was yet too dull to perceive exactly what was amiss. He looked into the child's face with a pained, questioning glance, whereon Andy grew gentle again as ever, and rubbed his soft cheek against the old man's sleeve, and patted his bony hand, while the tears slowly gathered in his eyes.

The winter passed thus, and as each month rolled away, and the snow was melted from the ground, and the sun shone upon the hills, Andy's face grew whiter and whiter; and when summer came he lay in a little cot by the kitchen fire close to his grandfather's side. He lay there and thought and thought as he looked into the fire, or listened to the monotonous washing of the sea. His peevishness seemed partly gone now, and he grew quiet and gentle and kind as his custom was. Oh yes,

he was quite like his old self now, though he looked so pinched and old, and his little white hands were as thin and transparent as his grandfather's. Lifeless as the old man generally appeared, he now grew dimly conscious of what was happening, and his dull heavy lustreless eyes brightened into something like life as he watched Andy's face. He seemed to feel that a chilly hand was drawing the child away, and he began to half realize what the loss would be to him. Andy could not understand all this; he was too young. He had been so long with his grandfather that he did not dream of parting; they seemed to breathe together. His grandfather would never leave him, he thought; and as to himself, why, if he became a fairy, grandfather must become a fairy too, and as he lay in his cot day after day, with the summer sunshine streaming full upon him, he thought and wondered over all these things.

"Cuileagh," he said one day, when Cuileagh had strolled in to sit beside him," are they all little people that live in the Fairy Island ?" "Yes, sure," said Cuileagh, gruffly.

"Then must everybody get small before they go ?"

"Maybe; but what for do ye ask that, Andy bawn?"

"Because I was wondering how grandfather will get there. He is so big, you know!"

"Sure 'tis not there he will go at all-the Holy Virgin forbid ! Never spake of it again, Andy astore."

And Andy never did speak of it again, but he lay in his cot and grew weaker and weaker, until at last he seemed to fade away, and his spirit broke loose and went to the Fairy Land.

They laid him out in his Sunday's best, and the neighbours flocked in to look upon the small white face and sunken cheeks. Grandfather sat beside the bed holding in his bony fingers the child's clay cold hands, and gazing upon him with a stupefied despair. As he sat there-only dully comprehending what had taken place, only faintly feeling his loss as yet too senile to understand that Andy had gone from him for ever, he saw the people come and go like the waves of a living sea, and as each person came up with a strange face to gaze upon the small, pinched, pleading face of the child, he heard the same words ringing in his ears, "Sure I always knew he was a fairy, and so he's gone to the fairies at last!"

IV.

THE house was very dull when Andy was taken away. Though he had ever been a quiet child, his very presence seemed to bring light and life

with it. But now the merest foot-fall echoed strangely through the room, and the roaring of the sea was ever heard, and the chilly whistling of the wind. For the summer which had taken Andy away had faded away too, and another Christmas was drawing nigh. They had all missed Andy, and they had all said so-but one-his grandfather.

The old man lived still. He had made no mention of the child. With tearless eyes he had watched them take him away, and then he had resumed his old seat in the ingle. There he sat, day after day, like a heavy lifeless log; he never opened his eyes to speak, he never raised his head to look around, and he never asked for Andy, but his bony hands were clasped upon his knees-and his knees were always apart as if Andy stood between them.

He never smoked now, because there was no Andy to light his pipe ; he seldom took food, because the child was not there to give and share it. He never spoke of Andy, and they thought he had forgotten him entirely.

But one day as he sat there apparently lifeless, he suddenly raised his thin bony hand, and put it into the inside pocket of his coat-Andy's pocket and drew forth the treasures Andy had left: a small piece of white bread, dried now hard as any stone, some pieces of string, and coloured stones and shells. These he held in his hand and gazed at with a heavy, stupefied gaze; then his fingers closed over them again, and they were put back into Andy's pocket to wait for Andy's coming.

The old man often repeated this, but the treasures were sacred from the touch of any other human hand.

Christmas night swept round again, and the peasantry of Storport hurried over the snow-clad hills to hear the midnight mass. In the widow Dunloe's cabin there was no rejoicing. The sea still washed at the door with that dreary sound which had called Andy away. The widow Dunloe sat silent, thinking of the Christmas night twelve months before, when Andy had stood between his grandfather's knees, and listened to the fairy tale. Cuileagh Clanmorris was near the fire smoking hard, but saying no word, and grandfather sat in his usual way with bowed head and closed eyes. The old man was not thinking of Andy, he was now almost too senile to think at all; but he had closed his eyes and fallen into a doze.

As he sat thus, something suddenly startled him. He opened his eyes, and there he saw standing between his knees, invisible to all eyes save his own, a little bright figure, rubbing its cheek against his sleeve and patting his hand, just like Andy used to do!

As the old man looked, the figure turned, and a little face was raised to his. It was Andy's face, grown whiter. The old man looked again. Sure enough it was Andy! There he stood, just as he had stood a year ago, and he looked almost the same. His face was pinched and worn and white, as it had been, but his little cheeks and hands were thinner, and his eyes more luminous.

He stood for a moment between his grandfather's knees, with his eyes fixed upon the fire.

Then, still without speaking a word, he turned, gently pulled open his grandfather's coat, and put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth that hard dried piece of white bread, and held it in his hand-then with the other he seized the old man's coat.

"Come along, grandfather, come along!" he said, in his old pathetic voice.

The old man half rose from his seat, and looked around wildly with dazed, heavy eyes. "Aye, aye," he murmured; then he sank down in his seat again, his eyes closed, and his head drooped upon his breast! . . .

When the Christmas bells rang out with a heavy clang for midnight they found grandfather sitting in his chair-quite dead! His head had fallen forward, his bony hands hung beside him, and on the floor at his feet lay the crust of bread which Andy had left. Perhaps his spirit had gone from the earth to join Andy on the Fairy Island in the Sea.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

UAN PONCE DE LEON has sailed away
To a mythic isle in the farther west,
Has followed the sun for many a day,

Tracking it home to its burning nest.
He seeks not now for the glory of Spain,
The land which runs golden in every vein;
He's braving the hungry, treacherous main
With a craving stronger than greed of gain-
Has the Fountain of Youth in quest.

Count not the years since he stood on a deck
By the side of Columbus, with eyes of fire,
And brains too ardent to dream of wreck

Whilst a new world waited their souls' desire!
Count not the years he has governed at ease,
That teeming isle in the tropical seas,
Ere he quarrelled with Spain and her grandees,
And once more shook out his sails to the breeze
In a spirit that could not tire !

Like snow on the fiery volcano's crest

Is the silvery glint in his ebon hair;

As the plough's deep furrows on earth's brown breast, Are the lines his forehead begins to wear :

And never a missal from monkish pen

Was more clearly written for learned ken,

Than those lines proclaiming that men are men.
But Leon has answered his own heart's "When?"
With a shout that has rent the air.

"It is not for manhood to sit and wait

The advancing foe with impassive hands; Shall age come on boldly and storm the gate

Of Leon, the victor of seas and lands?