dove, and the rabbits have not come home. Wings--I thought I'd be so
happy when I had wings, but I'm just mis'ribble I'm just mis'ribble."

There was a little noise behind Nell; she turned her head to see Boris
scrambling up into the seat by her side.

"I had two plates of salad," he began; "'twasn't so very nice, not so
nice as--why, what's the matter, Nell?"

"Come," said Nell, taking his hand, "quick, jump down, he's under the
oak tree, just where the shadow is thickest; I saw him move; that's him;
let's go to him, Boris; take my hand; let's run to him."

Boris's hot hand clutched Nell's. They ran quickly along by the
comparatively empty space near the wall, reached the entrance, and flew
swiftly across the moonlit grass.

CHAPTER XVII.

FAIRY AND BROWNIE.

Perhaps it was not the first time that the moon had looked down on a
fairy and a brownie running across that old, old lawn. No one could say
anything for certain on this point. We all of us have a sort of undying
belief in fairies, so perhaps they did exist once, before our hearts had
grown too cold and our natures too worldly to understand them. Children
know most about them, but even children don't quite believe in them now,
in the good old-fashioned way of long ago.

A very pretty fairy and brownie were out now. The moon silvered Nell's
wings and put a sort of unearthly radiance into her hair, and Boris,
with his bright locks standing almost upright on his head, in his
quaint little costume, with his upturned toes and ruffled hands, looked
quite like a true denizen of fairy land. Certain it is that the man who
stood under the shadow of the oak gave a perceptible start when he saw
the fairy and brownie. For a moment the old belief of his early
childhood flashed through his brain, then he recognised Nell and Boris,
and coming to meet them, he took a hand of each.

"What is it, father?" exclaimed Boris; "what are you standing out of
doors for? I know it's a very warm night, but we want you dreadfully,
dreadfully, in the house."

Boris rubbed himself against his father's knee as he spoke. Nell
clutched Squire Lorrimer's other hand, and raising it to her lips,
kissed it passionately. Nell did not speak at all.

"Come in, father, come in," repeated Boris; "and where's mother, and
what are you doing out here under the oak tree?"

"Looking at you little people; you make a gay sight," said the Squire.

In spite of himself, his voice was quite hol