if he couldn’t prevent Lofty John from cutting down the bush.”
“Emily—Byrd—Starr!”
“I told him I was a Protestant,” cried Emily. “He understands all about it. And he was just like anybody else. I like him better than Mr. Dare.”
Aunt Elizabeth did not say much more. There did not seem to be much she could say. Besides the bush wasn’t going to be cut down. The bringer of good news is forgiven much. She contented herself with glaring at Emily—who was too happy and excited to mind glares. She carried her letter off to the garret dormer and gloated over the stamp and the superscription a bit before she took out the enclosure.
“Dear Pearl of Emilys,” wrote Father Cassidy. “I’ve seen our lofty friend and I feel sure your green outpost of fairyland will be saved for your moonlit revels. I know you do dance there by light o’ moon when mortals are snoring. I think you’ll have to go through the form of asking Mr. Sullivan to spare those trees, but you’ll find him quite reasonable. It’s all in the knowing how and the time of the moon. How goes the epic and the language? I hope you’ll have no trouble in freeing the Child of The Sea from her vows. Continue to be the friend of all good elves, and of
“P. S. The B’y sends respects. What word have you for ‘cat’ in your language? Sure and you can’t get anything cattier than ‘cat’ can you, now?”
Lofty John spread the story of Emily’s appeal to Father Cassidy far and wide, enjoying it as a good joke on himself. Rhoda Stuart said she always knew Emily
