sprite--no, nor even a corpus-light. Herself in yonder bes no
fairy-child, Granny, but a fine young lady, more beautiful nor an angel
in heaven--maybe a marchant's darter an' maybe a king's darter, but nary
the child o' any vanishin' sprite. Sure, didn't I hold her in me two
arms all the way from the fore-top o' the wrack to the cliff?--an'
didn't she weigh agin' me arms till they was nigh broke wid it?"

"Denny, ye poor fool," returned Mother Nolan, "ye bes simple as a squid
t'rowed up on the land-wash. What do ye know o' fairies an' the like?
Wasn't I born on a Easter Sunday, wid the power to see the good people,
an' the little people, an' all the tricksy tribes? The body o' a
fairy-child bes human, lad. 'Tis but the heart o' her bes unhuman--an'
the beauty o' her--an' there bain't no soul in her. Did ye hear the
voice o' her, Denny? Holy saints! But was there ever a human woman wid
a voice the like o' that?"

"Aye, Granny, but did she eat? Did she drink? Did she shed tears?" asked
the skipper.

The old woman nodded her head.

"Fairies don't shed tears," said Dennis, grinning. "Sure, ye've told me
that yerself many a time."

"But half-fairies, like herself, sheds 'em as well as any human, ye mad
fool," returned Mother Nolan.

At that moment the outer door opened, and Nick Leary entered the
kitchen, closing the door behind him, and shooting the bolt into its
place. His face was so generously bandaged that only his eyes and nose