gh he could not see her at all,
he would start and pop back, pulling the wolf with him as though he had
done something wrong. Then without making any noise they would tiptoe
away to Herve's house, their hearts beating with love for the dear
little maiden who would soon come to bid them good-night on her way home
to her bower.

So they lived happily all the rest of their days, these three among the
flowers. And in spite of his name Herve's life was not one of
bitterness, but of joy. The kingdom which had come to him from Hyvarnion
and Rivanone was his all his life long; and though he no longer wandered
painfully from town to town, the songs which he made wandered still
from heart to heart. And long, long afterwards their echo made music
through the land of Brittany, as the fragrance of a flower lasts long
after the flower has passed on its way elsewhere.

Dear Saint Herve!

SAINT COMGALL AND THE MICE

AT the place where the Irish Sea is narrowest is the town of Bangor.
There the green hills of Saint Patrick's island smile over at the purple
cliffs of Scotland across the lane of water where the ships pass to and
fro, just as neighbors nod across a narrow street above the heads of the
passers-by. And here at Bangor Saint Comgall built a monastery, thirteen
hundred long years ago.

This does not sound very interesting, but it was interesting to many
people in those days, and I think it will be interesting to you. For
Comgall is an Irish word which means "the goodly pledge." And the man
who bore this name was a goodly pledge of friendship between man and
beast. Comgall had many pupils in his monastery, and many friends living
near who loved and honored him. They did splendid things together, and
tales of their doings were put into great books. But the most
interesting stories of all are about certain friends of Saint Comgall
who could not speak Irish and who did not wear clothes. Some of these
friends wore feathers and some wore fur; the strangest story of all is
about his friends with long tails and very sharp teeth. But you must
wait for that till I have told about the swans.

One day Comgall was walking with some friends on the bank of a pond. All
of a sudden, through the rushes and the tall grass some one spied six
beautiful white swans floating on the water, preening their fine
feathers and arching their necks proudly. For they could see in the
water, just as if it were a mirror, how handsome they were, a