readful. It's just happiness with the
least unhappiness to others."

He stared at her a little startled. It was the sort of thing, he felt
rebelliously, that he should write down in his notebook. Well, it was
no night for notebooks. It was a night, a lake, a boat for lovers.

"Even granting that, girleen," he said, "it's not going to make
somebody unhappy if we take his boat. For he won't know it. And
therefore it will make us happy with the least possible unhappiness to
anybody else. And, after all, it's more likely to be a fairy's boat,
for it's made of quicksilver. Come, mavourneen, come!"

She climbed in unconvinced.

"Lordy! Lordy!" breathed Kenny in delight. "The lake is thatched with
moonbeams!" And he thought of course of the legend of Killarney.
"'Twas a valley like this, Joan," he said, "all rich with fields and
pastures of green and there in the heart of it always was the fairy
fountain covered with a stone to keep the water from rushin' out. And
then came the knight."

His eyes pleaded. He was staging his legend and begging her to act.

"And then," said Joan smiling, "came the knight. I think his eyes were
Irish."

"He saw a maid at the fountain," said Kenny, his eyes tender, "a maid
with a pitcher and her skin was cream and her cheeks were rose and
there were shadows of gold in her bronzy, nut-brown hair. I'm sure she
wore a quaint old gown of blue and silver."

"Kenny!"

"And he liked her," said Kenny stubbornly. "You can't deny him that."

"No," said Joan gently. "And why should I deny it? For the blue and
silver maid liked the knight."

Kenny's heart leaped to his eyes.

"They wandered on the hills and they wandered in the valley. And then
the maid in blue and silver, who was all rose petals and sun shadows
and the glory of autumn, ran back to the fountain. She had forgotten
to cover it with the stone and the valley was flooded. There beautiful
and calm stretched the lake of Killarney and I hope it was moonlight."

"And the knight and the maid?" Joan had forgotten their game of
pretense. She was eager for the end of the story.

Kenny feathered his oars in silver spray and wondered impatiently why
all love stories ended in an anticlimax. He had finished the story
artistically and well. Luckily Joan had forgotten the stage and the
actors.

"I suppose," he said gloomily, "that the knight married the maid and
took her to dwell in a castle she must have hated. And