"For instance," said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of
foxglove in the hedge-aide, at the bottom of which one or two
crimson-speckled flowers were bursting from their green sheaths,
"I dare say, you don't know what makes this fox-glove bend and
sway so gracefully. You think it is blown by the wind, don't
you?" He looked at her with a grave smile, which did not enliven
his thoughtful eyes, but gave an inexpressible sweetness to his
face.
"I always thought it was the wind. What is it?" asked Ruth
innocently.
"Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the
fairies, and that it has the power of recognising them, and all
spiritual beings who pass by, and that it bows in deference to
them as they waft along. Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn--the
good people's glove; and hence, I imagine, our folk's-glove or
fox-glove."
"It's a very pretty fancy," said Ruth, much interested, and
wishing that he would go on, without expecting her to reply. But
they were already at the wooden bridge; he led her across, and
then, bowing his adieu, he had taken a different path even before
Ruth had thanked him for his attention.
It was an adventure to tell Mr. Bellingham, however; and it
aroused and amused him till dinner-time came, after which he
sauntered forth with a cigar.
"Ruth," said he, when he returned, "I've seen your little
hunchback. He looks like Riquet-with-the-Tuft.
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