Edward resolved to combat these superstitions and replace them by a
sane religion. He had not yet fathomed the ancient, cruel and mighty
power of these exhalations of the soil. Nor did he see that Hazel was
enchained by earth, prisoner to it only a little less than the beech
and the hyacinth--bond-serf of the sod.

When Edward and Hazel burst into the parlour, like sunshine into an old
garden, they were met by a powerful smell of burnt merino. Mrs. Marston
had been for some hours as near Paradise as we poor mortals can hope to
be. Her elastic-sided cloth boots rested on the fender, and her skirt,
carefully turned up, revealed a grey stuff petticoat with a hint of
white flannel beneath. The pink shawl was top, which meant optimism.
With Mrs. Marston, optimism was the direct result of warmth. Her
spectacles had crept up and round her head, and had a rakishly benign
appearance. On her comfortable lap lay the missionary _Word_ and a
large roll of brown knitting which was intended to imitate fur. Edward
noted hopefully that the pink shawl was top.

'Here's Hazel come to see you, mother!'

Mrs. Marston straightened her spectacles, surveyed Hazel, and asked if
she would like to do her hair. This ceremony over, they sat down to
tea.

'And how many brothers and sisters have you, my dear?' asked the old
lady.

'Never a one. Nobody but our Foxy.'

'Edward, too, has none. Who is Foxy?'