While she moved busily from the cart to the hedge her father employed himself lighting a fire of turf in a wrinkled bucket. When this was under way he pulled out a pipe, black as a coal, and off which half the shank was broken, and this he put into his mouth. At the moment he seemed to be sunken in thought, his eyes to the grass and his feet planted, and it was in a musing voice that he spoke:

"Do you know what I'd do, Mary, if I had a bottle of porter beside me in this field?"

"I do well," she replied; "you'd drink it."

"I would so, but before I'd drink it I'd put the end of this pipe into it, for it's newly cracked, and it sticks to my lips in a way that would anger a man wanting a smoke, and if I could stick it into the porter it would be cured. I don't suppose, now, that you have a sup of porter in the cart!"

"I have not."

"Because if you had a small sup I'd be able to get a smoke this night, as well as a drink."

"You're full of fun," said she sourly.

"I saw a bottle in your hand a while back," he continued musingly, "and it looked like a weighty bottle."

"It's full to the neck with spring water."

"Ah!" said her father, and he regarded that distant horizon whereon the pink cloud was now scarcely visible as a pinkness and was no longer the shape of a great whale.

After a moment he continued in a careless voice:

"You might hand me the bottle of spring water, alanna, till I wet my lips with it. It's a great thing for the thirst, I'm told, and it's healthy beside that."

"I'm keeping that sup of water to make the tea when we'd be wanting it."

"Well, I'll only take a drop out of it, and I won't lose the cork."

"You can get it yourself, then," said Mary, "for I've plenty to do and you haven't."

Her father, rolling his tough chin with his fingers, went to the cart. He found the bottle, lifted the cork, smelt it, tasted:

"It is spring water indeed," said he, and he thumped the cork back again with some irritation and replaced the bottle in the cart.

"I thought you wanted a drink," said his daughter mildly.

"So I do," he replied, "but I can't stand the little creatures that do be wriggling about in spring water. I wouldn't like to be swallowing them unknown. Ah! them things don't be in barrels that you buy in a shop, and that's a fact."

She was preparing the potatoes when a remark from her father caused her to pause.

"What is it?" said she.

"It's a bird. I saw it for a second against a white piece of a cloud, and I give you my word that it's as big as a haystack. There it is again," he continued excitedly, "there's three of them."

For a few minutes they followed the flight of these amazing birds, but the twilight had almost entirely departed and darkness was brooding over the land. They did not see them any more.

CHAPTER II

And yet it was but a short distance from where they camped that the angels first put foot to earth.

It is useless to question what turmoil of wind or vagary of wing brought them to this desert hill instead of to a place more worthy of their grandeur, for, indeed, they were gorgeously apparelled in silken robes of scarlet and gold and purple; upon their heads were crowns high in form and of curious, intricate workmanship, and their wings, stretching ten feet on either side, were of many and shining colours.

Enough that here they did land, and in this silence and darkness they stood for a few moments looking about them.

Then one spoke:

"Art," said he, "we were too busy coming down to look about us carefully; spring up again a little way, and see if there is any house in sight."

At the word one of the three stepped forward a pace, and leaped twenty feet into the air; his great wings swung out as he leaped, they beat twice, and he went circling the hill in steady, noiseless flight.

He returned in a minute:

"There are no houses here, but a little way below I saw a fire and two people sitting beside it."

"We will talk to them," said the other. "Show the way, Art."

"Up then," said Art.

"No," said the Angel who had not yet spoken. "I am tired of flying. We will walk to this place you speak of."

"Very well," replied Art, "let us walk."

And they went forward.

Around the little bucket of fire where Mac Cann and his daughter were sitting there was an intense darkness. At the distance of six feet they could still see, but delicately, indistinctly, and beyond that the night hung like a velvet curtain. They did not mind the night, they did not fear it, they did not look at it: it was around them, full of strangeness, full of mystery and terror, but they looked only at the glowing brazier, and in the red cheer of that they were content.

They had eaten the bread and the turnip, and were waiting for the potatoes to be cooked, and as they waited an odd phrase, an exclamation, a sigh would pass from one to the other; and then, suddenly, the dark curtain of night moved noiselessly, and the three angels stepped nobly in the firelight.

For an instant neither Mac Cann nor his daughter made a movement; they did not make a sound. Here was terror, and astonishment the sister of terror: they gaped: their whole being was in their eyes as they stared. From Mac Cann's throat came a noise; it had no grammatical significance, but it was weighted with all the sense that is in a dog's growl or a wolf's cry. Then the youngest of the strangers came forward:

"May we sit by your fire for a little time?" said he. "The night is cold, and in this darkness one does not know where to go."

At the sound of words Patsy seized hold of his sliding civilization.

"To be sure," he stammered. "Why wouldn't your honour sit down? There isn't a seat, but you're welcome to the grass and the light of the fire."

"Mary," he continued, looking hastily around—

But Mary was not there. The same instant those tall forms strode from the darkness in front Mary had slipped, swift and noiseless as the shadow of a cat, into the darkness behind her.

"Mary," said her father again, "these are decent people, I'm thinking. Let you come from wherever you are, for I'm sure they wouldn't hurt yourself or myself."

As swiftly as she had disappeared she reappeared.

"I was looking if the ass was all right," said she sullenly.

She sat again by the brazier, and began to turn the potatoes with a stick. She did not appear to be taking any heed of the strangers, but it is likely that she was able to see them without looking, because, as is well known, women and birds are able to see without turning their heads, and that is indeed a necessary provision, for they are both surrounded by enemies.