But it was thus that the lady of his dreams found him, as she wafted
in from a gallop over the ranges, with a shoe in her hand and leading
a horse that wore only three.

A smile was on her happy face, her cheeks were aglow and her eyes were
dancing in childish delight.

Little wonder then that Phil's heart stopped, then raced with all the
mad fury of a runaway; little wonder his face grew pale and his eyes
gleamed as he moved back against the wall beside his furnace.

And Eileen's merry smile faded away like the heat of an Indian
Summer's day before the cool of the approaching night. She stared with
widening eyes at the figure before her, for she saw, not the young,
sturdy, country blacksmith, but a picture of the past, a fugitive
from the police, a gaunt tired man, spent and almost beaten, seeking
sanctuary.

And on this occasion, she did not take time to consider how much the
man before her still craved for sanctuary.

Her lips parted in fear. Her hand went to her heart and she stepped
slowly backward toward the door.

"Oh,--oh,--oh!" was all she uttered.

She dropped the horseshoe at her feet, and, pressing her hands to her
eyes as if to shut out a sight that was unwelcome, she ran the
remaining distance to the door, pulled herself into her saddle and
rode quickly away.

She did not come back, as some might have done, to view the havoc she
had wrought. She did not know even that she had wrought havoc; but
three hours later, faithful, dumb, little Smiler found the man he so
much adored lying on a pile of horseshoes, breathing scarcely at all,
and strangely huddled.

That was the day that big, happy Sol Hanson came back to bear his
share of the load--and, for the week that followed, he had to bear all
of it, for Phil's overtaxed brain refused to awaken for seventy-two
hours and his overworked body declined to limber up for seventy-two
hours more.

On the morning of Phil's return to the smithy, at a moment when Sol's
back was turned, the little perfumed note--which had brought the
message from Fairyland--was dropped on the glowing furnace fire and
thrust with an iron deep into the red coals.

With it, Phil fancied he was thrusting the little fairy dream, and he
felt ever so glad of it. But he did not know, foolish man, that the
fires have never been kindled that can burn dreams from Fairyland;
that nothing can keep them from whispering back, at unexpected
moments, and beckoning to the dreamer through t