Hazel shut her eyes and clasped her hands, speaking in a soft monotone
as if repeating a lesson.

'In Hunter's Spinney on midsummer night there's things moving as move
no other time; things free as was fast; things crying out as have been
a long while hurted.' She suddenly opened her eyes and went on
dramatically 'First comes the Black Huntsman, crouching low on his
horse and the horse going belly to earth. And John Meares o' the
public, he seed the red froth from his nostrils on the brakes one
morning when he was ketching pheasants. And the jeath's with him, great
hound-dogs, real as real, only no eyes, but sockets with a light behind
'em. Ne'er a one knows what they's after. If I seed 'em I'd die,' she
finished hastily, taking a large bite of cake.

'Myths are interesting,' said Edward, 'especially nature myths.'

'What's a myth, Mr. Marston?'

'An untruth, my dear,' said Mrs. Marston.

'This inna one, then! I tell you John seed the blood!'

'Tell us more.' Edward would have drunk in nonsense rhymes from her
lips.

'And there's never a one to gainsay 'em in all the dark 'oods,' Hazel
went on, 'except on Midsummer Eve.'

'Midsummer!'--Mrs. Marston's tone was gently wistful--'is the only time
I'm really warm. That is, if the weather's as it should be. But the