“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.
As David and Elizabeth came to the workshop door they were startled by a rush and flutter of black feathers as Dick came flying out in great excitement. Yet, within, the place seemed more peaceful than ever. Mr. Reynolds had ceased his work and was sitting at the table, a place once littered inches deep with papers and tools, but now swept bare and clean. His hands lay idly before him and he sat staring, although it seemed he saw only the blank wall opposite. Again it struck Betsey how unnatural was the silence when those busy, familiar wheels stood still. He looked up at them strangely when they came in and said almost the same words he had spoken before, his voice steady but unnaturally loud.
“It is through the true dreams that the world goes forward.”
Then after a moment’s pause he added—
“And I have always said that a man could know a true dream from a false one, could be sure when he was working for a great good and not for a play-thing and a failure. But I was wrong—all wrong! Those wheels shall never turn again.”