‘Then we to the carns will away, my pednpaley[10]
My deary, my tweet!
Where the Small People’s feet
Tread out the Birth measure,
To give her a treasure
From out of the blue,
When she shall know too
’Tis better to give than to keep my pednpaley.’
The song and its music had hardly died away, when the tiny old woman spread her hands over the bramble-basket, as if in blessing, and then stole out of the cottage as noiselessly and mysteriously as she had come.
Joan was all of a tremble quite five minutes after she had gone, and when she had somewhat recovered herself, her glance fell on the costan. At first she was afraid what it contained; but her woman’s curiosity got the better of her fears, and, bending over the rough basket, she turned over the bracken, laid in careful order on its top, and saw lying on a bed of dried moss and leaves something that brought a cry of amazement, mingled with horror, to her lips.