and stood shaking himself there among the pack of fairies.
Mighty few words were passed betwixt Darby and Terror’s rider as the whole party went up to Darby’s stable, the little people follying behind quiet and ordherly.
It was not long till Terror was nibbling comfort- ably in a stall, Father Cassidy was dhrying himself before the kitchen fire, the King and Darby were sit- ting by the side of the hearth, and two score of the green-cloaked Little People were scatthered about the kitchen waiting for the great debate which was sure to come betwixt his Riverence and the head man of the Good People, now that the two had met.
So full was the room that some of the Good People sat on the shelves of the dhresser, others lay on the table, their chins in their fists, whilst little Phelim Beg was perching himself on a picture above the hearth. He’d no sooner touched the picture-frame than he let a howl out of him and jumped to the floor. “I’m burned to the bone!” says he.
“No wondher,” says the King, looking up; “’twas a picture of St. Patrick you were sitting on.”
Phadrig Oge, swinging his heels, balanced him-
