with his soft nose the priest’s cheek; but the good man looked raproachful into the big brown eyes that turned sorrowful to his own.
With the shoe in his hand the priest was standin’ fretting and helpless on the lonesome hillside, wondhering what he’d do at all at all, whin a sudden voice spoke up from somewhere near Terror’s knees.
“The top of the avinin’ to your Riverence,” it said; “I’m sorry for your bad luck,” says the voice.
Looking down, Father Cassidy saw a little cloaked figure, and caught the glint of a goold crown. ’Twas Brian Connors, the King of the Fairies, himself, that was in it.
His words had so friendly a ring in them that the clargyman smiled in answering, “Why, thin, good fortune to you, King Brian Connors!” says the good man, “an’ save you kindly. What wind brought you here?” he says.
The King spoke back free an’ pleasant. “The boys tould me you were comin’ down the mountainy way, and I came up just in time to see your misfortune. I’ve sent for Shaun Rhue, our own farrier—there’s no betther in Ireland; he’ll be here in a minute, so don’t worry,” says the King.
