My Own Self

In a tiny house in the North Countrie, 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 lived on from year to year in the little house, perhaps because she was never asked to pay any rent for it.