My Own Self
IN a tiny house in the North Countries, 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 hillside 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
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