of course, a bit
wet, and Madame Lavigne brought it in, and having closed the door and
re-lit her candle, laid it on the table. And then she saw it was the
tiniest of babies.

It must always be a difficult situation. Madame Lavigne did what most
people would have done in the case. She unrolled the wrappings, and
taking the little thing on her lap, sat down in front of the dull peat
fire and considered. It seemed wonderfully contented, and Madame
Lavigne thought the best thing to do would be to undress it and put it
to bed, and then go on with her knitting. She would consult Father Jean
in the morning and take his advice. She had never seen such fine
clothes. She took them off one by one, lovingly feeling their texture,
and when she finally removed the last little shift and the little white
thing lay exposed, Madame Lavigne sprang up with a cry and all but
dropped it into the fire. For she saw by the mark that every Breton
peasant knows that it was not a child but a fairy.

Her proper course, as she well knew, was to have opened the door and
flung it out into the darkness. Most women of the village would have
done so, and spent the rest of the night on their knees. But someone
must have chosen with foresight. There came to Madame Lavigne the
memory of her good man and her three tall sons, taken from her one by
one by the jealous sea, and, come what might of it, she could not do
it. The little thing understood, that was clear, for it smiled quite
knowingly and stretched out its little hands, touching Madame Lavigne's
brown withered skin, and stirring forgotten beatings of her heart.

Father Jean--one takes him to have been a tolerant, gently wise old
gentleman--could see no harm. That is, if Madame Lavigne could afford
the luxury. Maybe it was a good fairy. Would bring her luck. And
certain it is that the cackling of Madame's hens was heard more often
than before, and the weeds seemed fewer in the little patch of garden
that Madame Lavigne had rescued from the moor.

Of course, the news spread. One gathers that Madame Lavigne rather
gave herself airs. But the neighbours shook their heads, and the
child grew up lonely and avoided. Fortunately, the cottage was far
from other houses, and there was always the great moor with its deep
hiding-places. Father Jean was her sole playmate. He would take her
with him on his long tramps through his scattered district, leaving her
screened among the furze and br