"The fairies are afield," she sang to herself softly. Never had she felt so gay and light-hearted. "I shall dress and run out into the garden," she thought. "There is nothing to keep me indoors. Everything is safe"—for the heavy despatch-box she knew to be in Paulina's keeping. "What will the servants think when they see it?"
What they did think was that each thought the others had cleared away the pile of the young ladies' luggage, leaving only what was required. Or at least, as no questions were asked, no remarks made, they probably thought so, if they thought about it at all! Perhaps their curiosity was put to sleep by some uncanny though not maleficent influence. Who can say?
And in a very short time Clodagh was ready, and hat in hand, looking like the very spirit of the morning in person, she ran downstairs to find the old hall-porter sleepily unbarring the great door, though, sleepy as he was, he could not restrain a smile of admiration and a respectful "You be early about, Miss," to which she laughingly replied, "Who could help it, once they were awake, on such a morning?"
Yet another surprise awaited her, as you shall hear.
The Priory grounds were fairly extensive and delightfully quaint. Great laurel hedges, alternating with curiously high-clipped yews, and some magnificent elms added to the impression of space, as well as to that sort of pleasant "mystery" without which no garden is thoroughly fascinating.
"What a lovely place to explore!" said Clodagh to herself, as she turned down one long shady path, streaked here and there with the early sun-rays filtering through the foliage. Then a sound reached her ears, which recalled her experience of the night before. It was the humming of bees. She stood still for a moment to listen, feeling as if she were on the confines of some enchanted region. Then slowly, treading very softly, she went on. Yes—in a minute or two she saw at the end of the path a huge beautiful beehive, its inhabitants flying in and out, buzzing away, like the busy creatures they are. And in front of it stood a quaint little figure, whom Clodagh this time had no difficulty in at once recognising as the mysterious "Cousin Felicity" again.
Her laces and diamonds of the evening before seemed a dream, though her dress was dainty enough, much finer in quality than the very homely attire in which Clodagh had first seen her. It was a gown of flowered chintz, of the delicate colouring and excellent material that one now and again finds treasured among family relics—such as "my great-grandmother's" or even "great-great-grandmother's dresses." And the skirt was drawn through the pocket-holes in the orthodox old-fashioned way, showing the pink cotton petticoat and the neat little high-heeled shoes. The whole figure, as she stood with her back to the new-comer, was so trim and slim and youthful, that it gave almost a shock to Clodagh when the little lady turned suddenly and she caught sight of the tiny, withered, white face, surmounted by a kind of mob cap, from beneath which escaped a few soft grey curls. Yet it was evident that Cousin Felicity was in very good health and spirits, for she smiled beamingly as she accosted the young girl.
"The top of the morning to you, my dear," she said. "That's your national greeting, is it not? I knew you were not a lie-abed. Well, and how wags the world with you? I have been visiting my friends here, you see. We understand each other, these clever little creatures and I," and she fixed her bright eyes on Clodagh.
For a moment or two Clodagh stood silent. Then a smile broke over her face.
"Madam, lady, what shall I call you?" she exclaimed. "I must say it. I know the truth. You are a fairy. It is you I have to thank for what has been done to help me in the night!"