The most lonesome bridle-path in all Ireland leads from Tom Healey’s cottage down the sides of the hills, along the edge of the valley, till it raiches the highroad that skirts the great mountain, Sleive-na-mon.
One blusthering, unaisy night Father Cassidy, on his way home from a sick-call, rode over that same path. It wasn’t strange that the priest, as his horse ambled along, should be thinking of that other night in Darby O’Gill’s kitchen—the night when he met with the Good People; for there, off to the left, towered and threatened Sleive-na-mon, the home of the fairies.
The dismal ould mountain glowered toward his Riverence, its dark look saying, plain as spoken words:
“How dare ye come here; how dare ye?”
“I wondher,” says Father Cassidy to himself, look-
