Once upon a time there was a little girl who was quite ill. Her mother had little money for a cure. Still, she asked various persons of medical persuasion for what help they could offer. Ask is such a tame word. She pleaded. She begged. And was refused. All other moments were at her daughter's side, wiping her brow, watching the vicious cough that shook her tiny body take toll upon toll. And in the small moments when her daughter slept, the woman indulged in secret, silent tears, her eyes on the sweet small face that had less and less time for living. The moon was high on the night before what would be the last for the little girl. The woman knew the signs. Her daughter sleeping, she slipped out of the house, where she wished upon the moon. There was no wish that came in words, nothing that put voice to her futile hope. But a path wandered through the wood next to her house all the same; one, of course, the woman had n...