Bridget, in her half-asleep wisdom, guessed it was the little people. Her thoughts flew back in a flash to the days of childhood. She thoughtfully thanked her stars, and felt religious. She had it in mind to wake her daughter and three grandchildren, all sleeping in the same room, that they might share her good fortune, but refrained. If it were the fairies, they might not be pleased. She remembered the jealous secrecy reputed of the little people in the old country, who could not bear their meetings to be overlooked. So Irish! Bridget, therefore, saw those revels alone. She crept on her knees to the window and watched, resting her chin on the sill. It was so good a sight that she did not know she had cramp, and quite forgot the rheumatism from which she had made her family suffer for the last five years. She was lost in a rapture. "’Twas a soight to make ould eyes shparkle," she related afterwards. "On the tip-top of that chimney-pot was a little rhound man for all the worruld like a shwollen dumplin’, but as rid as holly-berries. That was a turr’ble important little gintleman. He looked like the settin’ sun full o’ twinkles; and the way he would come down and bless the others, rhound lumps like hisself, as if he was cock o’ the dancin’, was a wonder! And there, on a t’rone, made out of all sorts of fer-rns and flowers, was a leddy-queen fairy. She had a cr-rown on her head that would buy Ireland’s ransom; it shparkled and it shone, like the sun, moon and shtars all togither, whan glancin’ on a lake in Connaught. Her face was a pictur’ of kindness. Her eyes and her mouf were smilin’ like blessin’s. I’d have made her a cake for luck if I’d known how to get it to her, and I didn’t want to frighten them away, the darlin’s, a-leppin’ and a-rompin’ so prettily. So I put my daughter’s petticoat round me and kept on lookin’. There were hunderds and hunderds of fairies. They danced like anyt’ing; and waved about and looked so beautiful--it was a pictur’! Hev ye iver heard nightingales in an Irish wood? Hev ye iver seen moonbeams on an Irish river? No! Dear, what can I say to ye? Well, you’ve seen mother’s love in a woman’s face, so you’ll get some ghost of a notion of the music and the poethry, and the ma’nifishence of that dancin’. The light which came from the little people--it all came from them, with a little moonlight t’rown in--was br-right as fire on Tara.... And ye don’t belave it? ... Ah, ye makes a mishtake, young gintleman! If they weren’t fairies that I saw, and if I didn’t see them, there’s no hope for you nor for me nayther, for as thrue as Cuchulain killed his son they were there--as thrue as thruth they were there. I saw thim with these ould eyes.... See them? Of course I did! ’Twas plain as ugliness, only ’twas beautiful as light could make it. They kept on, they kept on, I tell ye, till afther the sun was up, and the lasht I saw of thim was the fairy with the cr-rown on shmilin’ and shmilin’!"