“But, my dear, that wastes it.  Now that bit is of no use.  There goes my knitting, you awkward lad!”

“Johnnie, pick it up!—­Oh!  Grandmother, I am so hungry.”  The boy’s eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an instant.

“What can I do for you, my poor bairns?” said she.  “There, never mind the scraps, Tommy.”

“Tell us a tale, Granny.  If you told us a new one, I shouldn’t keep thinking of that bread in the cupboard.—­Come, Johnnie, and sit against me.  Now then!”

“I doubt if there’s one of my old-world cracks I haven’t told you,” said the old lady, “unless it’s a queer ghost story was told me years ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows.”

“Oh! not ghosts!” Tommy broke in; “we’ve had so many.  I know it was a rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it.”

“It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone,” said the old lady with dignity.  “It’s a good half-mile from the churchyard.  And as to white petticoats, there wasn’t a female in the house; he wouldn’t have one; and his victuals came in by the pantry window.  But never mind!  Though it’s as true as a sermon.”

Johnnie lifted his head from his brother’s knee.

“Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy.  It’s a new ghost, and I should like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window.”

“I don’t like a story about victuals,” sulked Tommy.  “It makes me think of the bread.  O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story.  You never will tell us about the Fairies, and I know you know.”

“Hush! hush!” said the old lady.  “There’s Miss Surbiton’s Love-letter, and her Dreadful End.”

“I know Miss Surbiton, Granny.  I think she was a goose.  Why don’t you tell us about the Fairies?”

“Hush! hush! my dear.  There’s the Clerk and the Corpse-candles.”

“I know the Corpse-candles, Granny.  Besides, they make Johnnie dream, and he wakes me to keep him company. Why won’t you tell us about the Fairies?”

“My dear, they don’t like it,” said the old lady.

“O Granny dear, why don’t they?  Do tell!  I shouldn’t think of the bread a bit, if you told us about the Fairies.  I know nothing about them.”

“He lived in this house long enough,” said the old lady.  “But it’s not lucky to name him.”

“O Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?”

“Well, that’s true enough,” she sighed.  “Trout’s luck is gone; it went with the Brownie, I believe.”

“Was that he, Granny?”

“Yes, my dear, he lived with the Trouts for several generations.”

“What was he like, Granny?”

“Like a little man, they say, my dear.”

“What did he do?”

“He came in before the family were up, and swept up the hearth, and lighted the fire, and set out the breakfast, and tidied the room, and did all sorts of house-work.  But he never would be seen, and was off before they could catch him.  But they could hear him laughing and playing about the house sometimes.”