The hint was so firm a one that Donald Reynolds argued no further but turned away and strode out of sight into the darkness. David was about to go through the gate and follow him down the lane, when Michael stopped him. “Go up and look at Mr. Reynolds again before you go,” he begged. “I have a feeling that all is not well with him, even yet.” “You have so many feelings, Michael, how do you know what they mean?” inquired David with interest. The old man seated himself on his stool once more and began filling his pipe. “Men of Ireland are not quite like the rest of the world,” he said slowly. “We do not often say so, but I think it is in the hearts of all of us to think that since our fathers’ fathers knew the Little People, we of their blood can feel a little deeper and see some things a little clearer than others. You wouldn’t understand, not either of you, though you have keen, kind eyes yourselves.” Betsey looked back at him anxiously as they went toward the house to fulfill his request. He was lighting his pipe, the glow of the match shining picturesquely on his battered features and mild blue eyes. “He is too old to sit there in the damp and the dark,” she said, “and I am afraid he will stay in that one spot all night. But I suppose there is no use in trying to persuade him not to.” Yes, it was quite possible that Michael would sit there all night in faithful guardianship of the people he loved. He would have many quaint thoughts for company so that the time would not be dull, he would have memories of those wide, free plains and towering mountains where he once was lonely lord of thousands of sheep, memories of those giant, white-coated dogs that sped to his rescue on the night that Ted Reynolds had saved him and won his devoted service for all time. But it was more likely that his thoughts would wander farther yet, that it was fairy hounds and fairy hills that his mind’s eye would see, magic rings and dancing leprechauns and many another thing that only Michael’s kind can know. So clear would be his vision—as he grew a little drowsy—that the very flowers and hedges about him would seem crowded with tiny, rustling figures and the warm night air be full of the beat of little wings. For such a person as Michael, no night spent in the garden could be really dull.