Lord Clare at first smiled at this simple, childish faith, then grew serious, and sitting down on a flowery bank, drew his little daughter on to his knee, and explained to her how the story of fairies was, in the beginning, only a fable of poets and romance-writers, and was now only believed in by ignorant peasants, like her Irish nurse; that, in truth, there were no such beings as the fairies in all the world. When he had finished, he was surprised to see that the child had covered her face with her hands, and that the tears were fast trickling through her fingers. "What is my little daughter weeping for?" he asked. "For the fairies, papa; the dear, beautiful fairies. I can't believe in them any more." "But was it not right for papa to tell you the truth, my darling, even though it gave you pain?" "Yes, I suppose it was. But, oh, papa, somehow things don't look so beautiful as they did when I believed in the 'good people.' Then every bank of moss, or bit of green turf, I thought might be a fairy ball-room. Whenever I saw a flower, or a leaf floating on the water, I thought some fairy might be sailing on it. I was almost sure full-blown roses were the thrones of fairy queens, and buds just opening they were the little baby-fairies' cradles. Oh, it was so beautiful! and then, the kindness and goodness of the wee things, papa; that is, when you did not happen to offend them. They were always helping people out of trouble, especially poor persecuted princes and princesses, and they were such fast friends of good children--at least, so nurse and the fairy books said, and I used to believe so;--now it's all over." "But, my daughter," said Lord Clare, "we can be better than fairies to one another, if we will; and then, remember, that we have God's good angels to watch over and help us, when they can." "Yes," said Fanny, brightening up a little, "that is some comfort." It was soon after this conversation that the party ascended the old crumbly stone steps of the great tower of the castle. After enjoying the fine prospect from the summit for some time, Lord Clare inquired for the famous Blarney Stone. Rooney, the guide, a shrewd, smooth-tongued fellow, leaned over the ruined parapet, and pointing to a stone, several feet below, replied, "There it is, yer honor, the rale meraculous ould stone. Sure if your lordship would so demane yourself as to kiss it, to-day, you would never have any trouble in governing Irishmen at all. You would have only to spake, and the spirit of fight and rebellion would leave them, and they would be quiet as lambs." "Indeed! that would be a miracle; but how am I to get at the stone?" "Oh, that is aisy done. I'll hould your lordship by the heels and swing you over just--all for half a crown, and as much more as yer lordship is plased to give."