“Seven children!” said Brigid, growing red at the thought.
“... and they all dressed in grand red cloaks! And long hair as yellow as butter in June, and it streaming down their backs ... and golden crowns upon their heads....”
“... Upon their heads!” said Bride, with her eyes shining and her face quite pale now at the thought of all this.
“Upon their heads, of course! where else?” said Moll; she might easy have known better than to go on spouting out of her like that to the innocent poor child ... “and riding upon ponies they do be ... white ponies, with long tails flying behind them in the wind, they go so fast....”
“Where, where? I’d like to see them!” said the child, her little voice choking with wonder at all Moll was telling her.
“Whethen now, they do be in a-many places,” said Moll; “the Furry Hills at the back of this very house used to be full up of them ... is still, for all I know....”
With that, she bethought her of what Marg had said, about taking care of the child. And she began to consider that maybe Bride’s mind might get upset, and that she’d take the notion of going off to look for the fairies herself.
So Moll went on to say, “But all that happened a very long time ago; and little girls mustn’t be too venturesome, only do as they’re bid, and then there will nothing happen to them!”
But it’s the first word that counts. Little Brigid took no heed of this warning. She was standing beside Moll now, with the little rosy hand laid upon the old woman’s checky apron, and she looking up at her, and listening, listening, to every word that was said.
And now she went across to the half-door, that she was just able to peep over, by standing upon her tippy-toes; and Moll could hear her saying, in a whisper, “Pat! Judy! are yous there? Mind now and see to get that hay off the carts and ... and....”