The name of the blacksmith was Robert Kelly, and he was a great hand at the forge.
One night the blacksmith had a dream of his own, and a curious dream it was.
He dreamed a little lad came riding up on a great white horse. He was a handsome little fellow, with yellow hair and blue eyes, and Robert took him, from his size and looks, to be about seven years old, but at the same time there was something curious about him that made the blacksmith think he might be older.
“Robert Kelly, do you remember me?” asked the lad.
“I can’t say that I do,” answered the blacksmith, “and yet there’s something about you that makes me feel I may have seen you before.”
“Then have you forgotten Phil Renardy that was lost away seven long years ago?”
Now the blacksmith knew of whom the boy had reminded him. It was of that little lost lad of the Renardys.
“But that was seven long years ago, as you said,” replied the blacksmith, “and by this time Phil would be about fourteen years old. You will never be him.”
“Nevertheless I am,” said the boy. “It was the giant Mahon McMahon that stole me away seven years ago when I was playing near the cliffs, and I have been living with him and serving him ever since, and in the halls of the giant we who serve him never grow old, but stay as we were when he first brought us there.”
Now all the while the blacksmith knew he was asleep, and he thought this dream of his was the strangest dream he had ever heard of.