Size is not everything, even in this material existence.  One has heard of dwarfs who were quite as clever (not to say as powerful) as giants, and I do not fancy that Fairy Godmothers are ever very large.  It is wonderful what a comfort Brownies may be in the house that is fortunate enough to hold them!  The Tailor’s Brownies were the joy of his life; and day after day they seemed to grow more and more ingenious in finding little things to do for his good.

Now-a-days Granny never picked a scrap for herself.  One day’s shearings were all neatly arranged the next morning, and laid by her knitting-pins; and the Tailor’s tape and shears were no more absent without leave.

One day a message came to him to offer him two or three days’ tailoring in a farm-house some miles up the valley.  This was pleasant and advantageous sort of work; good food, sure pay, and a cheerful change; but he did not know how he could leave his family, unless, indeed, the Brownie might be relied upon to “keep the house together,” as they say.  The boys were sure that he would, and they promised to set his water, and to give as little trouble as possible; so, finally, the Tailor took up his shears and went up the valley, where the green banks sloped up into purple moor, or broke into sandy rocks, crowned with nodding oak fern.  On to the prosperous old farm, where he spent a very pleasant time, sitting level with the window geraniums on a table set apart for him, stitching and gossiping, gossiping and stitching, and feeling secure of honest payment when his work was done.  The mistress of the house was a kind good creature, and loved a chat; and though the Tailor kept his own secret as to the Brownies, he felt rather curious to know if the Good People had any hand in the comfort of this flourishing household, and watched his opportunity to make a few careless inquiries on the subject.

“Brownies?” laughed the dame.  “Ay, Master, I have heard of them.  When I was a girl, in service at the old hall, on Cowberry Edge, I heard a good deal of one they said had lived there in former times.  He did house-work as well as a woman, and a good deal quicker, they said.  One night one of the young ladies (that were then, they’re all dead now) hid herself in a cupboard, to see what he was like.”

“And what was he like?” inquired the Tailor, as composedly as he was able.

“A little fellow, they said,” answered the Farmer’s wife, knitting calmly on.  “Like a dwarf, you know, with a largish head for his body.  Not taller than—­why, my Bill, or your eldest boy, perhaps.  And he was dressed in rags, with an old cloak on, and stamping with passion at a cobweb he couldn’t get at with his broom.  They’ve very uncertain tempers, they say.  Tears one minute, and laughing the next.”

“You never had one here, I suppose?” said the Tailor.

“Not we,” she answered; “and I think I’d rather not.  They’re not canny after all; and my master and me have always been used to work, and we’ve sons and daughters to help us, and that’s better than meddling with the Fairies, to my mind.  No! no!” she added, laughing, “if we had had one you’d have heard of it, whoever didn’t, for I should have had some decent clothes made for him.  I couldn’t stand rags and old cloaks, messing and moth-catching, in my house.”