Holding the image tight in her right arm,
she drew the bolt cautiously. On the threshold at her feet, lay her
own babe, nestling in a bed of bracken.

She would have stooped at once and snatched him to her. But the
stone Christling hampered her, lying so heavily in her arm. For a
moment, fearing trickery, she had a mind to hurl it far out of doors
into the night. . . . It would fall without much hurt into the soft
sand of the towans. But on a second thought she held it forth gently
in her two hands.

"I never meant to hurt 'en, Aun' Mary," she said. "But a firstborn's
a firstborn, be we gentle or simple."

In the darkness a pair of invisible hands reached forward and took
her hostage.

When it was known that the Piskies had repented and restored Lovey
Bussow's child to her, the neighbours agreed that fools have most of
the luck in this world; but came nevertheless to offer their
congratulations. Meriden the Priest came also. He wanted to know
how it had happened; for the Piskies do not easily surrender a child
they have stolen.

Lovey--standing very demure, and smoothing her apron down along her
thighs--confessed that she had laid her trouble before Our Lady.

"A miracle, then!" exclaimed his Reverence. "What height! What
depth!"

"That's of it," agreed Lovey. "Aw, b'lieve me, your Reverence, we
mothers understand wan another."

PILOT MATTHEY'S CHRISTMAS.

Pilot Matthey came down to the little fishing-quay at five p.m. or
thereabouts. He is an elderly man, tall and sizable, with a grizzled
beard and eyes innocent-tender as a child's, but set in deep
crow's-feet at the corners, as all seamen's eyes are. It comes of
facing the wind.

Pilot Matthey spent the fore-half of his life at the fishing.
Thence he won his way to be a Trinity pilot, and wears such portions
of an old uniform as he remembers to don. He has six sons and four
daughters, all brought up in the fear of the Lord, and is very much
of a prophet in our Israel. One of the sons works with him as
apprentice, the other five follow the fishing.

He came down to the quay soon after tea-time, about half an hour
before the luggers were due to put out. Some twenty-five or thirty
men were already gathered, dandering to and fro with hands in
pockets, or seated on the bench under the sea wall, waiting for the
tide to serve. About an equal number were below in the boats,
getting things ready.

There was nothing unusual about Matthe