I have said wicked things to-night.

A VOICE (_close to the door_).

The wind blows out of the gates of the day,
The wind blows over the lonely of heart
And the lonely of heart is withered away,
While the faeries dance in a place apart,
Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air;
For they hear the wind laugh, and murmur, and sing
Of a land where even the old are fair,
And even the wise are merry of tongue;
But I heard a reed of Coolaney say,
'When the wind has laughed and murmured and sung,
The lonely of heart must wither away!'

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

I am right happy, and would make all else
Be happy too. I hear a child outside,
And will go bring her in out of the cold.

[_He opens the door. A_ CHILD _dressed in a green jacket with a red
cap comes into the house._

THE CHILD.

I tire of winds and waters and pale lights!

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

You are most welcome. It is cold out there,
Who'd think to face such cold on a May Eve.

THE CHILD.

And when I tire of this warm little house,
There is one here who must away, away,
To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams
Are holding a continual festival.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

O listen to her dreamy and strange talk,
Come to the fire.

THE CHILD.

I'll sit upon your knee,
For I have run from where the winds are born,
And long-to rest my feet a little while.

[_She sits upon his knee._

BRIDGET BRUIN.

How pretty you are!

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

Your hair is wet with dew!

BRIDGET BRUIN.

I'll chafe your poor chilled feet.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

You must have come
A long long way, for I have never seen
Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry;
Here is some bread and wine.

THE CHILD.

They are both nasty.
Old mother, have you nothing nice for me?

BRIDGET BRUIN.

I have some honey!

[_She goes into the next room._

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

You are a dear child;
The mother was quite cross before you came.

[BRIDGET _returns with the honey, and goes to the dresser and fills a
porringer with milk._

BRIDGET BRUIN.

She is the child of gentle people; look
At her white hands and at her pretty dress.
I've brought you some new milk, but wait awhile
And I will put it by the fire to warm,
For things well fitted for poor folk like us
Would never please a high-born child like you.

THE CHILD.

Old mother, my old mother, the gree