“Mais non, monsieur,” laughed Fairy, in a half-reproachful, half-deprecating tone. “Mademoiselle speaks like a native, but will she have the kindness to tell me what is the English for fer-de-cheval; I have forgotten?” “A horseshoe,” said Fairy. “A horseshoe,” lisped the Frenchman. “A horseshoe, and he asked for a horse’s iron; no wonder I didn’t know what he meant,” growled the blacksmith, proceeding to get the article in question. “A horseshoe—a horse’s iron,” laughed the veterinary, in an undertone of scorn, as he went his way to look after John Shelley’s sheep. “Yes,” said the Frenchman, in French, to Fairy, “I want a horseshoe. They tell me a horseshoe always brings good luck, so I am going to keep one in my room.” “Oh, but it is no use to buy a horseshoe; you must find it, pick it up on the road, and keep it for it to bring good luck,” laughed Fairy, speaking French. “Is that it? Well, never mind, this horseshoe has brought me some good luck at any rate already.” And then, fearing he was presuming too much on his brief acquaintance to pay the compliment his last speech implied, he added, apologetically, “I have not often the good luck to meet a lady out of France who speaks French so fluently as mademoiselle.” “Monsieur is very kind to say so, but unless I can be of any further use I must say good morning,” said Fairy, moving to the door. The young Frenchman uttered a thousand thanks, bowed lower than ever, and stood uncovered at the door of the shed, watching till Fairy’s little figure and fluttering white skirts disappeared from view. “Rum ways! Is Mr. Parlez-vous, with his outlandish talk, going to stand there all day in the broiling sun? He’ll have a sunstroke if he does. He is the queerest customer ever darkened my door,” growled the blacksmith, as he hammered on his anvil to attract the stranger’s attention. The stranger had no intention of moving until Fairy had disappeared from view, and then he put on his hat and walked up to the anvil. “Who is that lady?” he asked. “Nobody knows,” growled the surly old blacksmith. “What is her name?” “Can’t say; nobody knows,” answered the blacksmith, in a still surlier tone, though to do him justice he thought this fine gentleman’s sudden interest in the shepherd’s Fairy, as people called her, boded no good to Fairy. “How much is the horse-iron—shoe, I mean?” “Sixpence, sir.” The Frenchman laid down half-a-crown, and pushing it towards the blacksmith, gave him a meaning look as he repeated the question. “What is that lady’s name?” The blacksmith understood well enough that if he gave a satisfactory answer no change would be required, and soothing his conscience with the thought that after all it was no business of his—he was only answering a civil question, he said, “They call her the shepherd’s Fairy.” “But what is her real name?” and the Frenchman produced another half-crown, and held it temptingly in his finger and thumb.