e was
there to-day! That explains, I think, the look you saw."

The doctor ceased, and in the silence the old Director nodded. Yes! That
explained the look he had seen on the face of that unknown woman, the
deep, unseizable, weird look. That explained the look he had seen on the
wife's face at the funeral twenty years ago!

And peering wistfully, he said:

"They looked--they looked--almost triumphant!"

Then, slowly, he rubbed his hands over his knees, with the secret
craving of the old for warmth.

1914.

VI

FAIRYLAND

It was about three o'clock, this November afternoon, when I rode down
into "Fairyland," as it is called about here. The birch-trees there are
more beautiful than any in the world; and when the clouds are streaming
over in rain-grey, and the sky soaring above in higher blue, just-seen,
those gold and silver creatures have such magical loveliness as makes
the hearts of mortals ache. The fairies, who have been driven off the
moor, alone watch them with equanimity, if they be not indeed the
birch-trees themselves--especially those little very golden ones which
have strayed out into the heather, on the far side of the glen.
"Revenge!" the fairies cried when a century ago those, whom they do not
exist just to amuse, made the new road over the moor, cutting right
through the home of twilight, that wood above the "Falls," where till
then they had always enjoyed inviolable enchantment. They trooped
forthwith in their multitudinous secrecy down into the glen, to swarm
about the old road. In half a century or so they had it almost
abandoned, save for occasional horsemen and harmless persons seeking
beauty, for whom the fairies have never had much feeling of aversion.
And now, after a hundred years, it is all theirs; the ground so golden
with leaves and bracken that the old track is nothing but a vague
hardness beneath a horse's feet, nothing but a runnel for the rains to
gather in. There is everywhere that glen scent of mouldering leaves, so
sweet when the wind comes down and stirs it, and the sun frees and
livens it. Not very many birds, perhaps because hawks are fond of
hovering here. This was once the only road up to the village, the only
communication with all that lies to the south and east! Now the fairies
have got it indeed, they have witched to skeletons all the little
bridges across the glen stream; they have mossed and thinned the gates
to wraiths. With their dapple-gold revelry in sun