INGÉ. I thought I'd go just this once.

MOTHER (_showing sorrow_). Ah, Ingé, that's what you always say.

INGÉ. There's no harm talking with the elves.

MOTHER. And I, your mother, say there is harm.

INGÉ. But, mother,--they talk so prettily.

MOTHER (_nodding_). Aye! and that's the harm. They've put such silly ideas
into your head.

INGÉ. They say 't is friendship makes them talk as they do.

MOTHER (_indignantly_). Friendship! 'T is friendship, is it, to tell you
not to fetch the wood?

INGÉ. They say 't will spoil my hands.

MOTHER. Out upon them and their pretty talk! You shall go there no more. Do
you hear me, Ingé?

INGÉ (_pouting_). I hear.

MOTHER. Now take this loaf of bread to your sick aunt. Say to her 't is her
Christmas gift.

INGÉ. But, mother, I must cross the muddy road to go there.