"
And he took her home, and they lived happy ever after.
My Own Self
In a tiny house in the North Countrie, far away from any town or
village, there lived not long ago, a poor widow all alone with her
little son, a six-year-old boy.
The house-door opened straight on to the hill-side and all round about
were moorlands and huge stones, and swampy hollows; never a house nor a
sign of life wherever you might look, for their nearest neighbours were
the "ferlies" in the glen below, and the "will-o'-the-wisps" in the long
grass along the pathside.
And many a tale she could tell of the "good folk" calling to each other
in the oak-trees, and the twinkling lights hopping on to the very window
sill, on dark nights; but in spite of the loneliness, she lived on from
year to year in the little house, perhaps because she was never asked to
pay any rent for it.
But she did not care to sit up late, when the fire burnt low, and no one
knew what might be about; so, when they had had their supper she would
make up a good fire and go off to bed, so that if anything terrible
_did_ happen, she could always hide her head under the bed-clothes.
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