tight
and Peter was smiling at something afar off.

An antiphonal chorus of yawns broke the hush that followed, while
Bridget worked herself back under the covers.

"A ken the penny micht be buyin' a hame," came in a drowsy voice from
Sandy's crib. "'Twad be a hame in Aberdeen--wi' trees an' flo'ers an'
mickle wee creepit things--an'--Miss Peggie--an'--us--"

"Sure, an' it could be buyin' a grand home in Irelan', the same,"
Bridget beamed; and then she added, struck forcibly with an
afterthought: "But what would be the sense of a home anywheres but
here--furninst--within easy reach of a crutch or a wheeled chair? Tell
me that!"

Sandy grunted ambiguously; and Bridget took up again the thread of her
recounting.

"Ye could never be guessin' half o' the sthrange adventures we'll be
havin'! Like as not Sandy 'll be gettin' his hump lifted off him. I
mind the story--me mother often told it me. There was a humpy back in
Irelan', once, who went always about wi' song in his heart an' another
on his lips; an' one day he fetched up inside a faery rath. The pipers
were pipin' an' the Wee People was dancin', an' while they was dancin'
they was singin' like this: 'Monday an' Tuesday--an' Monday an'
Tuesday--an' Monday an' Tuesday'--an' it sounded all jerky and bad.
'That's a terrible poor song,' says the humpy, speakin' out plain.
'What's that?' says the faeries, stoppin' their dance an' gatherin'
round him. ''Tis mortal poor music ye are making' says the humpy
ag'in. 'Can ye improve it any?' asked the faeries. 'I can that,' says
the humpy. 'Add Wednesday to it an' ye'll have double as good a song.'
An' when the faeries tried it it was so pretty, an' they was so
pleased, they took the hump off him."

Sandy had curled up like a kitten; his eyes were shut, and he was
smiling, too. Every one was very quiet; only Rosita moved, reaching
out a frightened hand to Bridget.

"Fwaid," she lisped. "All dark--fwaid to do."

"Whist, darlin', ye needn't be afeared. Bridget 'll hold tight to your
hand all the way. An' the stars will be out there makin' it bright--so
bright--foreby the stars are the faeries' old rush-lights. When
they're all burned out, just, they throw them up i' the sky--far as
ever they can--an' God reaches out an' catches them. Then He sets them
all a-burnin' ag'in, so's the wee angel babies can see what road to be
takin'. An' Sandy 'll lose his hump--an' Michael 'll get a new
heart--maybe--that won'