behind--as one tightens the reins downhill--to keep her on her feet.
Edward was carrying a kitchen chair for his mother to sit on during the
journey.

Hazel felt that they were none of them any good; they none of them knew
what it was like to be frit. So she ran away, and left the hot,
secretive, omniscient place with its fierce white and its crafty
shadows.

She reached a tiny field that ran up to the woods, and there, among the
brilliantly varnished buttercups, the bees sounded like the tides
coming in on the coasts of faery. Hazel forgot her dread--an
inexplicable sickening dread of the quarry. She chased a fat bumble-bee
all across the golden floor--one eager, fluffy, shining head after the
other. They might have been, in the all-permeating glory on their hill
terrace, with the sapphire-circled plain around--they might have been
the two youngest citizens of Paradise, circled in for ever from bleak
honeyless winter, bleak honeyless hearts.

The slow cortege came down the path, Martha being obliged, as the
descent grew steeper, to fling herself back like a person in a
tug-of-war, for Mrs. Marston gathered way as she went, and uttered
little helpless cries.

'I'm going, Martha! I'm losing control! Not by the bugles, Martha! Not
by the braid!'

When they reached the road, the traction engine was not in sight, so
they sat in the bank and waited, Mrs. Marston regal in the chair; and
Hazel held a buttercup under Edward's chin to see if he liked butter.