His own birthday was on the thirteenth of the month, and he often laid his
sorrows to that unchancy date. On the seventh he sat on the old Round
Stone, his pipes lying silent beside him, and brooded on his heavy ill.
Father Delancey had just left him and had told him flatly that he had no
ills at all. Hence he sat, his heart heavier than ever, drooping, under
the great maple tree, the road white before him, leading away into the
empty, half-translucent shadows of starlight. Father Delancey had said it
was only the faëry nonsense in his head that made him miserable, and had
marshaled before him the irrefutable blessings of his life. Had he not
been cared for from the first minute of his landing from Ireland, a
penniless piper of nineteen, as though the holy saints themselves were
about him? Had he not gone direct to Father Delancey, sent by the priest
in Donegal, and had not Father Delancey at once placed him in the Wilcox
family, kindliest, heartiest, and most stirring of New England farmers?
And had he not lived in prosperity with them ever since?

Timothy started at the faëry number. "Twinty-one years? So 'tis,
Father--an' more! 'Tis twinty-one years to-day since I came, aven and
true--the seventh day of October. Sure, somethin' ought to happen on such
a day--oughtn't it?"

"Happen?" queried Father Delancey.

"The seventh day of October, the twinty-first year and October bein' the
month for thim," said Timothy, elucidating confidently.

Father Delancey frowned and broke into an angry exclamation, "'Tis simple
mad ye are, Timothy Moran, with your faëry foolishness, and I've a half a
mind to take your pipes away from you as a penance for your ignorant
superstition!"