They walked over to the well. A deeply marked path led to it, and all about it the ground was beaten hard by the feet of many people, save in the patch of ground where the sticks stood upright. There were all kinds of sticks; rough stakes, cut from a hedge, ash-plants, blackthorns—some of no value, others well-finished and costly. Rags, white and coloured, fluttered from them. And there was more than one crutch, standing straight and stiff among the lesser sticks. “But what is it?” breathed Norah. “It’s a holy well. Hundreds of years ago there was a great sickness in the country, and the people sent to a saint who had originally come from these parts, begging him to come and help them. The saint was in Rome, and he could not come. But he was sorry for the people; and the legend goes that he threw his staff into a well in Rome, and it sank, and emerged from the water of the Well of Doon here: and ever since then the people believe that the water has healing power, and that it will heal anyone who pilgrimages to it barefoot.” “But does it?” asked Wally, incredulously. “Well—they say the age of miracles is past. But the age of faith-healing is not; and you won’t find an Irishman, whatever his religion, sneering at the old holy places of Ireland. I don’t pretend to understand these things, but I respect them. And then—there is no doubt whatever as to the genuineness, and the permanence, of many of the cures.” He pointed to the little forest of sticks. “Look at those sticks: each one left here by a grateful man or woman who came leaning on the stick, and went away not needing it.” “Great Scott!” said Wally. “And the rags?” “They are votive offerings. If you look on that flat stone near the well you’ll find hundreds of others—tokens, medals, little ornaments, even hairpins: all valueless, but left by people too poor to give even a penny. They believe the saint understands: and I think he would be a hard saint if he did not.” The stone was almost covered with tiny offerings. “Does no one touch them?” Jim asked. “They’re sacred. If you left money there it would not be touched.” He pointed to a handful of wilting daisies. “I expect those were left by children on their way to school. All the poor know that it is the spirit, not the letter, of an offering that counts: and even those daisies are left in perfect faith that the saint will see to the matter if trouble should come to them.” “I never thought such beliefs still existed,” said Mr. Linton, greatly interested. “Look at this crutch—it’s quite good, and looks newly-planted.” A woman, barefooted and with a shawl over her head, had come across the grass from the cottage. She curtseyed to O’Neill.