in two
places at once. Anybody can do that, and it hurts no more than cutting
a lock of hair, but this was--oh! there's only one thing could do
this. There was a pair of open scissors lying close to the child, and
I almost touched them!"

She could say no more, and there was no more to be said. "You
couldn't get the child, then," said the King, "and there's the end of
it. Nobody could, if they did all them things. I dunno how it is," the
King went on, half to himself, "a child lies there with a pair of
scissors open near by, and a horseshoe nail close to it--maybe hung
around its neck--and a circle drawn around it with a coal of fire, and
it never minds it at all. It sleeps and wakes and lies there as
peaceful and happy and quiet as if there was nothing at all out of the
common about it. I dunno how they can do it. They're queer people,
these mortals. We can't get the girl. They was too clever for us. But
we've got the boy, and we'll do the best we can with him."

[Illustration: ]

VI

LITTLE KATHLEEN AND LITTLE TERENCE

The next morning John O'Brien was sitting alone, when there was a
knock at the door. Then Peter Sullivan opened it, said "God save all
here!" and came in.

"God save you kindly!" John answered.

"It's distressed we are," said Peter, "to hear of the death of poor
Kitty. Ellen would be here with me to tell you so, only bein' in bed
herself and not able to stir, and what'll come to all of us I dunno.
I'm that disturbed about her I dunno what I'll do at all. I left her
with one of the neighbors and came to see your mother about her. But
sure it's you has the great grief on you already, whatever comes to
us. It's not only you I'm thinkin' of, but it's the child, left with
no mother. Oh, it's a terrible thing."

"My own mother can bring up any child," John answered. "Have no fear
of that. It's us that knew Kitty that'll feel the loss of her."

"And how is the child doing, anyway?" Peter asked.

"She looks fine and healthy, glory be to God!" said John.

"It's a girl, they tell me."

"It is."

"Do you know yet what you'll call her?"

"We'll name her Kathleen, after her mother," said John.

"Then you'll be calling her Kitty, like her mother, I suppose."

"No--no," John answered, slowly; "I don't think I'll call her that.
The child will be always Kathleen. I dunno if I can tell you how I
feel about that. It was a name for a child, more than a
woman--Kitty--and yet, now that she's go