said, "you don't reckon I'm goin' to sit down
under this? What?--and him the beautifullest, straightest cheeld
that ever was in Gwithian Parish! Go'st thy ways home, every wan.
Piskies steal my cheeld an' Dan'l's, would they? I'll pisky 'em!"

She showed them forth--"put them to doors" as we say in the Duchy--
every one, the Priest included. She would have none of their
consolation.

"You mean it kindly, naybors, I don't say; but tiddn' what I happen
to want. I wants my cheeld back; an' I'll _have'n_ back, what's
more!"

They went their ways, agreeing that the woman was doited. Lovey
closed the door upon them, bolted it, and sat for hours staring at
the empty cradle. Through the unglazed window she could see the
stars; and when these told her that midnight was near, she put on her
shawl again, drew the bolt, and fared forth over the towans.
At first the stars guided her, and the slant of the night-wind on her
face; but by and by, in a dip between the hills, she spied her mark
and steered for it. This was the spark within St. Gwithian's Chapel,
where day and night a tiny oil lamp, with a floating wick, burned
before the image of Our Lady.

Meriden the Priest kept the lamp filled, the wick trimmed, year in
and year out. But he, good man, after remembering Lovey in his
prayers, was laid asleep and snoring within his hut, a bowshot away.
The chapel-door opened softly to Lovey's hand, and she crept up to
Mary's image, and abased herself before it.

"Dear Aun' Mary," she whispered, "the Piskies have taken my cheeld!
You d'knaw what that means to a poor female--you there, cuddlin' your
liddle Jesus in the crook o' your arm. An' you d'knaw likewise what
these Piskies be like; spiteful li'l toads, same as you or I might be
if happen we'd died unchristened an' hadn' no share in heaven nor
hell nor middle-earth. But that's no excuse. Aun' Mary, my dear, I
want my cheeld back!" said she. That was all Lovey prayed. Without
more ado she bobbed a curtsy, crept from the chapel, closed the door,
and way-to-go back to her cottage.

When she reached it and struck a light in the kitchen she more than
half expected to hear the child cry to her from his cradle. But, for
all that Meriden the Priest had told her concerning the Virgin and
her power, there the cradle stood empty.

"Well-a-well!" breathed Lovey. "The gentry are not to be hurried, I
reckon. I'll fit and lie down for forty winks," she said; "though I
do t