“Doesn’t anybody ever go in there, Gerry?” inquired Betty, rather inclined to look upon the wood as the home of Faery. “Anybody? Why, of course; we often do. The senior girls built their huts in there for the Pioneer badge last summer, and they gave the whole school tea. And we fetch primrose plants for the gardens from the wood--from where the wood doesn’t miss them, you know. We often go in there, too, on hot days. But it’s private except to us. No one else goes there.” Gerry threw back her mop of hair. “We might get some foxglove plants for the garden from there later on. They’d be lovely.” “Wouldn’t they!” agreed Betty. But she spoke half-abstractedly. Her heart was filled with another idea. The sound of the music and the remembrance of the dream picture in the little post-office at home had set her own dreams racing. Gerry had mentioned Witch’s Wood; and the name had a splendid mystery about it too. At the very next chance she would ask Rene to tell her about it. “What?” Up in the dormitory that night, while they brushed their hair, Rene listened rather incredulously to their tale. “No, _I’ve_ never heard it. It must have been a mistake. Or else a trespassing boy. Though--” Rene broke off. “Well?” inquired Gerry, scenting disbelief in Rene’s voice. “Dad says that the boys _don’t_ trespass in our wood. He says we’re lucky. He says that the Witch’s Wood being close by is more help to the school wood than a hundred ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ boards,” finished up the doctor’s daughter. “But _our_ wood’s not Witch’s Wood,” broke in Gerry. “Of course it’s not. But they’re close; there’s only a broken-down fence between. So I suppose the boys think the witch might lean over the palings and catch them,” Rene laughed. “I wish you’d tell me about Witch’s Wood,” broke in Betty eagerly. “It’s such a story-book name, and so thrilly.” “It’s not so thrilly as it sounds, then.” Rene’s tone sounded superior. “It’s absolutely ordinary. And it’s only private because the owner died abroad years ago and his estate went into Chancery, and the village people got ideas about the wood because of the haunted cottage in the middle. They _say_ that it’s haunted anyhow. They say that it’s a witch’s cottage, and that it gave the name to the wood. But Dad says it ought to be spelt Wych’s Wood, and that it’s because of the wych elms that it’s got its name. And he’s sure to be right.” “Besides,” said Mona severely, breaking in, “we’re Guides. And Guides don’t believe in ghosts.” “I don’t either. Oh, do tell everything about the witch’s cottage, though, Rene,” begged Betty. “It’s there. And nobody goes into the wood, so nobody goes near it. A lawyer came down from London once and looked at it. Dad says it couldn’t possibly be lived in. That’s all.”