Gerna thought the sun would never show himself, and she was too tired to appreciate all the wonder of the sunrise, though she was glad enough to hear the birds singing, for it made her feel she was not so very far from home, after all.
At last the sun, red-gold and very large, wheeled up behind the shoulder of a Tor and flung out a great lance of flame across the moorland, which smote the small ring-marked purse lying on the Tolmên.
Gerna, whose gaze was now riveted on the purse, saw its ends open like a gasping fish, and then shrivel up, and in its black ashes sat the most beautiful little creature it was possible to conceive. She was so lovely and so dainty that the child could only stare at her open-mouthed with wonder and amazement.
‘How can I ever thank you, dear little Gerna, for all you have done for me!’ said the radiant creature, looking up into the child’s amazed eyes. ‘All the Wee Folks’ treasures will not be deemed reward enough for the child who preferred to be compassionate than to be made rich with fairies’ gold. I should not be sitting here free from that,’ pointing to the shrivelled-up blackness which was once a Spriggan’s prison, ‘but for you, dear. Are you not glad you are the means of setting me free and bringing me unspeakable happiness?’
‘Iss,’ said Gerna, hardly knowing what she was saying, her eyes still drinking in the beauty of the little fairy. ‘Aw!’ she exclaimed, ‘you are a dear little lovely, sure ‘nough—better than all the Small People’s golden pieces. You don’t look a bit old, nuther.’
‘You thought I should look as old as your Great-Grannie, didn’t you?’ laughed the happy little creature. ‘The Small People show their age by looking younger and fairer—at least, the royal fairies do.’
She got on her feet as she spoke, and gazed over the great moor, and as she gazed, her face, which had the delicate pink of a cowry-shell, grew more beautiful, and a tender, happy light crept into her speedwell-blue eyes.
‘There is a friend of yours crossing the moor,’ she said in her sweet voice, which was more than ever like the note of a bird, only sweeter and clearer.
‘Why, ’tis Farmer Vivian!’ cried the child. ‘However did he get here? I do hope he won’t want to have you,’ glancing at her lovely little friend anxiously. ‘I don’t know what I shall do to hide ’ee if he should. I couldn’t put beautiful little you in my underskirt pocket or into the bosom of my frock.’
‘Why not?’ asked the dainty little creature, smiling. ‘I lay there close to your heart all this night, and a warmer, truer little heart I shall never rest against. But you need not fear Farmer Vivian on my account. He, of all persons, would not hurt any of the Good Small People for a king’s crown, much less me.’