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“Aun’ Mary, Aun’ Mary,” said Lovey, speaking up sharp, “this iddn’ no sense ‘t all! A person would think time was no objic, the way you stick there starin’, ain’ my poor cheeld leary with hunger afore now–as you, bein’ a mother, oft to knaw. Fit an’ fetch ‘en home to me quick. Aw, do’ee co’, that’s a dear soul!”

But Our Lady stood there and made no sign.

“I don’t understand ‘ee ‘t all,” Lovey groaned. “‘Tiddn’ the way I’d behave in your place, and you d’knaw it.”

Still Our Lady made no sign.

Lovey grew desperate.

“Aw, very well, then!” she cried. “Try what it feels like without your liddle Jesus!”

And reaching up a hand, she snatched at and lifted the Holy Child that fitted into a stone socket on Our Lady’s arm. It came away in her grasp, and she fled, tucking it under her shawl.

All the way home Lovey looked for the earth to gape and swallow her, or a hand to reach down from heaven and grip her by the hair; and all the way she seemed to hear Our Lady’s feet padding after her in the darkness. But she never stopped nor stayed until she reached home; and there, flinging in through the door and slamming to the bolt behind her, she made one spring for the bed, and slid down in it, cowering over the small stone image.

Rat-a-tat! tat!–someone knocked on the door so that the cottage shook.

“Knock away!” said Lovey. “Whoever thee be, thee ‘rt not my cheeld.”

Rat-a-tat! tat!

“My cheeld wouldn’ be knockin’: he’s got neither strength nor sproil for it. An’ you may fetch Michael and all his Angels, to tear me in pieces,” said Lovey; “but till I hear my own cheeld creen to me, I’ll keep what I have!”

Thereupon Lovey sat up, listening. For outside she heard a feeble wail.

She slipped out of bed. 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.”