The hero was gone. And, girl-like--well, childlike then--this wee gipsy maiden sat down upon a stone and burst into tears, much to the concern of ever-faithful Wallace, who did his best to kiss those tears away. But sorrow often ends in slumber; it is as if Nature needed the solace of sleep to make her forget. A colder breath of air appeared to sweep through the tree-trunks; and, drawing her tartan plaid up around head and dishevelled hair, Lotty lay down in the lee of the mossy stone, and, drawing up her knees, fell fast asleep, with Wallace at her back. Crona some hours after this heard a low, ominous growl, and, looking in the direction whence it came, beheld the raven face and brown eyes of the honest dog. The witch-wife was doctor to half the fisher-families that dwelt in little villages by the sea, and she had been out wandering over the moors and through the forests looking for roots and simple herbs, when she came to the spot where Lotty lay. 'Poor Wallace, so your little mistress has gone to sleep? Yes, dear fellow; but it isn't on the damp moss it is safe to lie.' Crona's cottage was but three hundred yards away, and when Lotty awoke she found herself lying in a gleam of sunshine on a wooden bench or dais by the cottage door. She sat up, wondering for a moment or two where she was, then back came all her grief, though she tried to hide it from her fairy godmother as much as she could. This dear soul had spread a wee table with a white cloth, and placed thereon a cup of heather-ale--her own brewing, and she was famed for this--with barley-meal scones, butter, and honey. There was even a vase of fresh primroses on this little table, which she had drawn close up to Lotty's side. 'Eat, my lamb,' she was saying. 'If young folks would live, young folks must eat.' She was smoothing Lotty's brow and hair. And the girl tried to eat and drink only just to please Crona, for she felt a little shivery and of appetite she had none. Besides, her fairy godmother's kind sympathy now touched her heart and made the tears stream down her face afresh. Indeed, unromantic though it may seem to say so, some of her tears fell among the heather-ale. 'I am not a witch, dear Lotty, though they say so; but this I can tell you, that you will, in course of time, see Frank Antony once again. So don't mourn for him, dearie.' 'But fa-fa-father has been so unkind! Do you know what he said, dear godmother? He sai-sai-said that by not being Grace Darling Redivivus I was the ruin of the show and all his prospects.'