"Then we'll start first thing to-morrow, if it's calm enough," he said.

But that evening was the last of the golden autumn; and when Fiona woke in the morning, the Isle of Mist was justifying its name. The southwest gale was raging round the house like a live animal, seizing it and shaking it, and wailing in the chimneys pitifully, like an unburied ghost; and before the gale the long lead-colored rollers were racing in from the Atlantic, smashing themselves on the crags and shooting up heavenward in columns of spray thrice the height of the cliffs, while the noise of the surf in the Scargill cave came booming across the water like the roar of a battleship's guns. The hills were all shrouded in mist, and the mist was fine salt rain that rolled in from the sea, driving in billows over the moor and across the fields; the gulls were tossed about in it like little bits of waste paper, and every green thing on the island opened its heart to the rain and drank till it could drink no more. Toward evening Fiona and the Student, in oilskins and sou'-westers, went down to the rocks and out seaward as far as was possible, and there stood, unable to speak for the noise.

They balanced themselves against the gusts, and felt the tingling drops of salt spray rattle like hail off their coats, while they watched the cliff waterfalls, unable to fall for the wind, go straight up heavenward in clouds of smoke, and the sea foam and tear at the rocks below; and once for a moment the cloud-mist parted, and the hills started out, their dark sides all gashed and seamed with white streaks where every tiny runlet and burn was rushing in spate down toward the sea. Fiona managed to shout, with her clear young voice, "No one can really love this island who only knows it in summer;" and then they went home, out of the dusk and the lashing of the wet wind, to the quiet bookroom and tea things, and lamps, and books; for man may love Nature, but he loves still better the contrast between Nature and the things which he has fashioned for himself.

For three weeks the wind blew; and though there were days when the sea-mist lifted, there was no day on which the sea was calm enough for the launching of their small boat. Then one afternoon came change. The warm air turned chill, and the warm rain became sleet; that night the wind backed to the north, and next day was a blizzard of snow. And the night after the wind fell away, and the snow ceased, and Orion and his two dogs shone huge in a frosty sky; and Fiona woke to the glories of a scarlet sunrise on a great field of white.

"We must hurry, daddy," she said. "It's perfectly calm."

"It's a pet day," said the Student, sniffing the air. "It won't last; the wind backed too suddenly. But it's all right till sunset."

Directly breakfast was over they launched the little boat, and started. The snow shone white in the sunshine, and the calm sea against the snow was as blue as a blue lotus; but the shadows on the snow were a wonder, and the woven complexity of their colorings would have taxed every hue on an artist's palette. So they pulled down and into the cave, at whose mouth the great bluff looked barer and blacker than ever against the world's whiteness; and they grounded their boat and climbed the rock barrier. There the Student sat down and filled and lit his pipe.

"This is as far as I can go," he said. "If I mistake not, you will find that they have opened the door for you."

So Fiona went on to the recess where the Urchin had found the doubloon, and where the torch had been smashed in her father's hand; and the solid wall of the cliff had opened, and there was an archway leading into the black vaulting of the long cave behind. Fiona pa.s.sed through into the darkness . . . and the darkness parted to right and left of her, and she stood again in the fairy ring where she had stood on All Hallows E'en.

But how changed. Of all the bright throng of fairies that had cl.u.s.tered round it, not one stood there to-day. The circle of scarlet toadstools was broken down and shattered, as though by a great storm; and the ring itself was no longer gra.s.s, but was covered deep in snow.

Of all the things she had seen there that evening, only one remained.

The beryl throne still stood lonely in the midst of the bare ring; and on the throne sat the King of the Fairies. His face rested on his hand, as though he were deep in thought; his eyes were looking at something far away. On the steps of the throne sat the Chancellor, the King's inseparable friend; and he, too, was deep in thought. It was a view of the fairy world which Fiona had never expected.

The King must have heard her step, for he rose from his throne and came down to meet her.

"Have you come for your treasure, Fiona?" he said.

And she said, "I have come because you asked me to come back."

The King held out his sceptre to her; and again the mist came up from the ground and enwrapped the beryl throne, and the figures of the King and the Chancellor wavered and became dim before her. _Were_ they the King and the Chancellor? Was not what she saw, so dim through the mist, the figures of the shepherd who had helped her on Glenollisdal and his black collie? But the mist was wavering again about them, and again all was a blur; and then the mist suddenly cleared, and there was no one there at all but just the old hawker and the little terrier which followed him.

"So you were the King of the Fairies all the time," said Fiona.

"All the time," said the old man gently. "We go about in the world as you see us. And some still entertain angels unaware. Have you come for your treasure, Fiona?"

And this time Fiona answered, "Yes."

"You have earned it," said the King. "And you have found much more than any treasure. Your father has told you that?"

And again Fiona said, "Yes."

"I cannot really give you your treasure," said the King, "for you have it already. I think you have had it all the time; but you did not know. But now you have learnt."

"What is it?" asked Fiona. "But I think I can guess now."

"It is the spirit of the island which you love," said the King, "and which henceforth loves you. You have spoken face to face with bird and beast and with the beings who knew and loved the land before your race was. To-day you have the freedom of the island, and of all living things in it; they are your friends forever. And to the dead in its graveyards you are kin. All that is there has pa.s.sed into your blood, the old lost loves, the old impossible loyalties, the old forgotten heroisms and tendernesses; all these are yours; and yours are the songs that were sung long ago, and the tales which were told by the fireside; and the deeds of the men and women of old have become part of you. You can walk now through the crowded city and never know it, for the wind from the heather will be about you where you go; you can stand in the tumult of men and never hear them, for round you will be the silence of your own sea. That is the treasure of the Isle of Mist; the island has given you of its soul. You have found greater things already; you will find greater things yet again. But such as it is, it is the best gift which we of the fairy world have to give."

"And now," continued the King, "you will not see us again. And I will take back the bracelet. It would be no further use to you, for you are no longer a child. You are too old for Fairyland."

"But my father could see you," said Fiona.

"He could only see me as I really am through your eyes," said the King. "It may be that some day you too will see me again through the eyes of a child. But for the present it is farewell."

So Fiona stooped down and stroked the little dog, who looked at her with wistful eyes, and took her farewell of the King; and the King raised his hand, and the mist rose again and enwrapped the fairy ring and those in it . . . and Fiona walked out through the archway into the cave, and there sat the Student on the rock barrier, just as she had left him, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. And even as she came to him there was a noise behind her, and when she looked round it was to see the archway blocked by a great fall of rock.

"You will not use that way again, little daughter," said the Student.

"I shall not use any way again now, daddy," she said. "I am too old.

But oh, daddy, it has been worth it."

Then they launched their boat and paddled slowly out of the cave, out of the dark into daylight; and before them lay the quiet sea bathed in the winter sun, and the Isle of Mist dreaming under its mantle of white.

THE END.

_A Selection from the Catalogue of_

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Complete Catalogues sent on application

THE MOON POOL

BY A. MERRITT

Romance, real romance, and wonderful adventure,--absolutely impossible, yet utterly probable! A story one almost regrets having read, since one can then no longer read it for the first time. Once in the proverbial blue moon there comes to the fore an author who can conceive and write such a tale. Here is one!

Few indeed will forget, who, with the Professor, watch the mystic approach of the Shining One down the moon path,--who follow with him and the others the path below the Moon Pool, beyond the Door of the Seven Lights;--and would there were more characters in fiction like Lakla the lovely and Larry O'Keefe the lovable.

Perhaps you readers will know who were those weird and awe-inspiring Silent Ones.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON

Visions and Beliefs in the West of Ireland

By Lady Gregory

With Two Essays and Notes by W. B. Yeats _Two Volumes. 12_