“There’s plenty of time,” said Tommy; so they went.  The dew lay heavy and thick upon the grass by the road-side, and over the miles of network that the spiders had woven from blossom to blossom of the heather.  The dew is the Sun’s breakfast; but he was barely up yet, and had not eaten it, and the world felt anything but warm.  Nevertheless, it was so sweet and fresh as it is at no later hour of the day, and every sound was like the returning voice of a long-absent friend.  Down to the pastures, where was more network and more dew, but when one has nothing to speak of in the way of boots, the state of the ground is of the less consequence.

The Tailor had been right, there was no lack of mushrooms at this time of the morning.  All over the pasture they stood, of all sizes, some like buttons, some like tables; and in the distance one or two ragged women, stooping over them with baskets, looked like huge fungi also.

“This is where the fairies feast,” said Tommy.  “They had a large party last night.  When they go, they take away the dishes and cups, for they are made of gold; but they leave their tables, and we eat them.”

“I wonder whether giants would like to eat our tables,” said Johnnie.

This was beyond Tommy’s capabilities of surmise; so they filled a handkerchief, and hurried back again, for fear the Tailor should have come down-stairs.

They were depositing the last mushroom in a dish on the table, when his footsteps were heard descending.

“There he is!” exclaimed Tommy.  “Remember, we mustn’t be caught.  Run back to bed.”

Johnnie caught up the handkerchief, and smothering their laughter, the two scrambled back up the ladder, and dashed straight into the heather.

Meanwhile the poor Tailor came wearily down-stairs.  Day after day, since his wife’s death, he had come down every morning to the same desolate sight—­yesterday’s refuse and an empty hearth.  This morning task of tidying was always a sad and ungrateful one to the widowed father.  His awkward struggles with the house-work in which she had been so notable, chafed him.  The dirty kitchen was dreary, the labour lonely, and it was an hour’s time lost to his trade.  But life does not stand still while one is wishing, and so the Tailor did that for which there was neither remedy nor substitute; and came down this morning as other mornings to the pail and broom.  When he came in he looked round, and started, and rubbed his eyes; looked round again, and rubbed them harder:  then went up to the fire and held out his hand, (warm certainly)—­then up to the table and smelt the mushrooms, (esculent fungi beyond a doubt)—­handled the loaf, stared at the open door and window, the swept floor, and the sunshine pouring in, and finally sat down in stunned admiration.  Then he jumped up and ran to the foot of the stairs, shouting,