s he was sleeping
dreamlessly.

For four hours he slept without movement. But just above his head
there hung a baize-covered board containing a list or two of the
parish ratepayers and the usual notice of the spring training of the
Royal Cornwall Eangers Militia. This last placard had broken from two
of its fastenings, and towards midnight flapped loudly in an eddy of
the light wind. The sleeper stirred, and passed a languid hand over
his face. A spider within the porch had been busy while he slept, and
his hand encountered gossamer.

His eyes opened. He sat upright, and lowered his bare feet upon
the flags. Outside, the blue firmament was full of stars sparkling
unevenly, as though the wind were trying in sport to puff them out.
In the eaves of the porch he could hear the martins rustling in the
crevices--they had returned but a few days back to their old quarters.
But what drew the man to step out under the sky was the cottage-window
over the wall.

The lattice was pushed back and the room inside was brightly lit. But
between him and the lamp a white sheet had been stretched right across
the window; and on this sheet two quick hands were weaving all kinds
of clever shadows, shaping them, moving them, or reshaping them with
the speed of summer lightning.

It was certainly a remarkable performance. The shadows took the forms
of rabbits, swans, foxes, elephants, fairies, sailors with wooden
legs, old women who smoked pipes, ballet-girls who pirouetted, anglers
who bobbed for fish, twirling harlequins, and the profiles of eminent
statesmen--all made with two hands and, at the most, the help of a
tiny stick or piece of string. They danced and capered, grew large
and then small, with such profusion of odd turns and changes that the
flageolet-player began to giggle as he wondered. He remarked that the
hands, whenever they were disentwined for a moment, appeared to be
very small and plump.

In about ten minutes the display ceased, and the shadow of a woman's
head and neck crossed the sheet, which was presently drawn back at one
corner.

"Is that any better?" asked a woman's voice, low but distinct.

The flageolet-player started and bent his eyes lower, across the
graves and into the shadow beneath the window. For the first time he
was aware of a figure standing there, a little way out from the wall.
As well as he could see, it was a young boy.

"Much better, mother. You can't think how you've improved at it this
w