weather's not what it was!'

'Tell us more, Hazel!' pleaded Edward.

'What for do you want to hear, my soul?'

Edward flushed at the caressing phrase, and Mrs. Marston looked as
indignant as was possible to her physiognomy, until she realized that
it was a mere form of speech.

'Because I love--old tales.'

'Well, if so be you go there, then'--Hazel leant forward, earnest and
mysterious--'after the pack's gone you'll hear soft feet running, and
you'll see faces look out and hands waving. And gangs of folks come
galloping under the leaves, not seen clear, hastening above a bit. And
others come quick after, all with trouble on 'em. And the place is full
of whispering and rustling and voices calling a long way off. And my mam
said the trees get free that night--or else folk of the trees--creeping
and struggling out of the boles like a chicken from an egg--getting free
like lads out of school; and they go after the jeath-pack like birds
after a cuckoo. And last comes the lady of Undern Coppy, lagging and
lonesome, riding in a troop of shadows, and sobbing, "Lost--lost! Oh, my
green garden!" And they say the brake flowers on the eve of that night,
and no bird sings and no star falls.'

'What a pack of nonsense!' murmured Mrs. Marston drowsily.

'That it inna!' cried Hazel; 'it's the bloody truth!'