larder before we came out.' He unpocketed one big hunk of bread
and Una another, which they shared with Puck.

'That's Little Lindens' baking,' he said, as his white teeth sunk
in it. 'I know Mrs Vincey's hand.' He ate with a slow sideways
thrust and grind, just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly
dropped a crumb. The sun flashed on Little Lindens' windows,
and the cloudless sky grew stiller and hotter in the valley.

'AH - Cold Iron,' he said at last to the impatient children. 'Folk
in housen, as the People of the Hills say, grow careless about Cold
Iron. They'll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to
put it over the back. Then, some time or other, the People of the
Hills slip in, find the cradle-babe in the corner, and -'

'Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,'Una cried.

'No,' said Puck firmly. 'All that talk of changelings is people's
excuse for their own neglect. Never believe 'em. I'd whip 'em at
the cart-tail through three parishes if I had my way.'

'But they don't do it now,' said Una.

'Whip, or neglect children? Umm! Some folks and some fields
never alter. But the People of the Hills didn't work any changeling
tricks. They'd tiptoe in and whisper and weave round the
cradle-babe in the chimney-corner - a fag-end of a charm here, or
half a spell there - like kettles singing; but when the babe's mind
came to bud out afterwards, it would act differently from other
people in its station. That's no advantage to man or maid. So I