'A pretty tune, the first she sang,' said Mrs. Marston, not having
heard the others. 'But such wild manners and such hair! Like pussy
stroked the wrong way. And there is something a little peculiar about
her, for when she sings about heaven it seems somehow improper, and
that,' she added drowsily, 'heaven hardly _should_ do.'

Edward understood what she meant. He had been conscious himself of
something desperately exciting in the bearing of Hazel Woodus--something
that penetrated the underworld which lay like a covered well within him,
and, like a ray of light, set all kinds of unsuspected life moving and
developing there.

As supper went on Edward kept more and more of Hazel's attention, and
the quiet grey eyes met the restless amber ones more often.

'If I came some day--soon--to your home, would you sing to me?' he
asked.

'I couldna. I'm promised for the bark-stripping.'

'What's that?'

Hazel looked at him pityingly.

'Dunna you know what that is?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'It's fetching the bark off'n the failed trees ready for lugging.'