“Thank you kindly, sir,” said she, “and I hope you will eat enough, and that it will do you good.”
“And while you are eating your supper,” said the huntsman, “I’ll make you a bed of fresh rushes.”
“Don’t put yourself to that trouble,” said the little man. “When I have done my supper I’ll lie down here by the fire, if it is pleasing to you, and I’ll sleep like a top until morning. And now go back to your beds and leave me to myself, and maybe some time when you won’t be expecting it I’ll do a good turn for your kindness to the poor wayfarer.”
“Oh, it’s no kindness at all,” said the huntsman’s wife. “It would be a queer thing if an Irish cabin would not give shelter and welcome in a wild 127 night like this. So good night, now, and we hope you will sleep well.”
“Good night,” said the little man, “and may you and yours never sup sorrow until your dying day.”
The huntsman and his wife and Fergus then went back to their beds, and the little man, having finished his supper, curled himself up by the fire, and was soon fast asleep.
About an hour after a loud clap of thunder awakened Fergus, and before it had died away he heard three knocks at the door. He aroused his parents and told them.
“Get up at once,” said his mother, “this is no night to keep a stranger outside our door.”
Fergus rose and opened the door, and a flash of lightning showed him a little old woman, with a shuttle in her hand, standing outside.
“Come in, and welcome,” said he, and the little old woman stepped into the room.