"Oh, tell me more about her. Did she speak to you? She's fearfully dangerous. We had a ranch-hand here who went quite fey, possessed, I think. I'm frightened of her now."
"She thinks," he retorted, "that you're a wicked woman."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. She said you would run away, and you did. I am to tell you that's very unwise."
"Please tell the minx to mind her own business."
"What is her business?" he asked mildly.
"Being a fairy, I suppose. I'll never forgive her for what she did to Billy. Besides," I added, "she makes fun of us."
"No wonder, for we humans are so stupid."
"She's full of mischief."
"Of course." The old man's eyes twinkled and blinked as though—I can't set words to fit that puzzled memory. He had told me twice that he was not a fairy. "I am to tell you from my lady, that she is not the minx. Winds, waves, and living things," he said, "are full of mischief and laughter. The sun has room to sparkle even in a tear, and Heaven touches our lips with every smile, for joy is holy. Spirits, angels, fairies, are only thoughts which have caught the light celestial, mirror-thoughts which shine in Heaven's glory. Children, and happy people see that light, which never shines on any clouded soul."