David wasted no time. Out of the scraps that were left him he tried at once to build up a new world. He looked out of the car window at the fields and houses flying past, and he thought of all the pleasant things Johanna had promised him. Johanna and Barney were the caretakers of a big summer hotel in the mountains. The summer season was over, the hotel closed, and he was going to live with Johanna and Barney in the lodge and have a whole mountain-top to play on. He was going to help Barney cut down next year’s fire-wood and drive the sledge for him over the lumber roads. He was going to make a toboggan-slide down the cleared side of the mountain; he was going to skate on the pond above the beaver dam, and learn to skee, and a crowd of other jolly things. And in the spring there were to be the maple-trees to tap. Only, in the mean time, there were father and mother traveling farther and farther away; and there was Christmas coming nearer and nearer. And how could he ever stand one without the others?
He turned away from the car window and looked at Johanna; and then out popped the most surprising question from her.
“Hark, laddy! Have ye forgotten all about the fairies and the stories Johanna used to tell?”
David smiled without knowing it.
“Why, no. No, I haven’t. A person never entirely forgets about fairies, even if he does grow up—does he? I guess I haven’t been thinking about them lately, that’s all.”
“Sure, and ye haven’t!” Johanna’s voice had the same folksy ring to it that it had in the nursery days. “Faith, ’tis hard keeping them lively when ye are living in the city. Wasn’t I almost giving over believing in them myself, after living there a few years? It wasn’t till I moved to the hilltops and the green country that I got them back again.”
“Have you seen any up there?”
David asked it as one might inquire about the personal habits of Santa Claus or the chances of finding the crock of gold at the rainbow’s end, experiences one has never had oneself, but which one is perfectly willing to credit to another upon receipt of satisfactory evidence. Moreover, fairies were undeniably comfortable to think about just now. And what is more, whenever things happen that seem unreal and that make you feel strange and unreal yourself, that is the very time that fairies become the most real and easy to believe in. David discovered this now, and it made him snuggle closer to Johanna and repeat his question:
“Have you really seen any up there?”
Johanna puckered her forehead and considered for a moment.
“’Tis this way, laddy. I can’t be saying honestly that I have laid my two eyes on one for certain; and then again I can’t say honestly that I haven’t. Many’s the time in the woods or thereabouts that I’ve had the feeling I’ve just stumbled on one, just missed him by a wink, or beaten him there by a second. The moss by the brookside would have a trodden-down look and the bracken would be swaying with no help o’ the wind—for all the world as if a wee man had just been brushing his way through.”
“It might have been a squirrel,” suggested David, the dust of the city still clouding his mind.
“Aye, but I’m thinking it wasn’t. And if there’s a fairy up yonder in the Hill Country I’m thinking ye’ll find him. ’Twill give ye one thing more to do, eh, laddy?” Johanna tightened the arm about him and laughed softly.
“But how would fairies get over here? I shouldn’t think they would ever want to leave Ireland; and I thought they never came out in winter.”
“They might come because they had been locked out.” Johanna’s eyes suddenly began to dance mysteriously, and she put her lips close to David’s ear that the noise and jar of the train might not drown one word of what she was going to say:
“Whist, laddy! Do ye mind what day it is? ’Tis the very last day of the fairy summer, the last day when they’ll be making the rings and dancing the reels over in Ireland.”
“Why, it’s Hallowe’en,” remembered David.
“Aye, that’s what! And after this night the fairies bolt the doors of their raths fast with magic and never come out again till May Eve, barring once in a white winter or so when they come out on Christmas Eve. But it happens every so often that a fairy gets locked out on this night. He stays dancing too long, or playing too many tricks, and when he gets back to the rath ’tis past cock-crow and the door is barred against him. Then there’s naught for him to do but to bide how and where he can till opening time comes on May Eve.”
“And if—and if—”
“Sure, if one should get locked out this night, what’s to prevent his coming over? What’s more likely than that he’d be saying to himself, ‘Faith, Ireland’ll be a mortal lonely place with the rest o’ the lads gone. I’ll try my luck in another country.’ And with that he follows the rest of the Irish and emigrates over here. And if he ever lands, ye mark my word, laddy, he’ll make straight for the Hill Country! That is, if he’s not there already ahead of himself.”
Johanna laughed and David laughed with her.
“Sure, there’s a heap o’ sense in some nonsense, mind that! And never be so foolish, just because ye grow up and get a little book knowledge, as to turn up your nose and mock at the things ye loved and believed in when ye were a little lad. Them that do, lose one of the biggest cures for heartache there is in the world, mind that!”
David turned back to the window. Already, beyond the foreground of passing woods and meadows, he could catch glimpses of the Hill Country, hazy and purple, lying afar off. Johanna was right. It was better to think of the locked-out fairy than of himself. He found himself wondering if fairies grew lonesome as humans did, and if it was as hard to be locked out of a rath as a home. He wondered if all the fairies were grown up or if there were boy and girl fairies, and father and mother fairies. He would ask Johanna some time, when he was sure he could ask it with a perfectly steady voice. But most of all, he wondered about opening time; and he wished with all his heart that he knew just when opening time would come for him. Until then, he must keep very busy with the fire-wood and the sled and the toboggan-slide and the skating and skeeing and Christmas.
What kind of a Christmas was it going to be?
The train climbed half-way to the top of the highest hill and there it left David and Johanna. Barney was waiting for them with the horses and the big wagon to carry them up the rest of the way; and to David it seemed a very lonesome way. The stars were out before they reached the lodge, but even in the starlight he could see that they were alone on the hilltop except for the great, shadowy, closed hotel and the encompassing fir-trees.
“Ye’ll not be troubled with noise, and ye’ll not be pestered with neighbors,” laughed Barney, as he helped David to clamber down from the wagon. “Johanna says that in the winter there is nobody alive in these parts but the creatures and the ‘heathens’ and ourselves.”
II
THE LOCKED-OUT FAIRY
Two months had passed since David had come to the Hill Country—two months in which he had thrown himself with all the stoutness of heart he could muster into the new life and the things Johanna had promised. He had spent long, crisp November days with Barney in the woods, watching him fell the trees marked for fire-wood and learning to use his end of a cross-cut saw. When the snow came and the lumber roads were packed hard for sledding he had shared in the driving of the team and the piling of the logs. He had learned to skee and to snow-shoe; already he had dulled his skates on the pond above the beaver dam. Yet in spite of all these things, in spite of Barney’s good-natured comradeship and Johanna’s faithful