‘No; puzzled, not frightened. If this had occurred at night, it would have been different. I thought it might have been a red-deer; they are here sometimes, strayed from Exmoor, and have such pretty heads and soft eyes; but this was not. I fancied once I saw a queer little face peering at me from behind a pine tree. I uttered a feeble cry and ran on.’ ‘I know exactly what it was,’ said Jasper, with a grave smile. ‘There is a pixy lives in the Raven Rock; he has a smithy far down in the heart of the cliff, and there he works all winter at a vein of pure gold, hammering and turning the golden cups and marsh marigolds with which to strew the pastures and watercourses in spring. But it is dull for the pixy sitting alone without light; he has no one to love and care for him, and, though the gold glows in his forge, his little heart is cold. He has been dreaming all winter of a sweet fairy he saw last summer wearing a crown of marigold, wading in cuckoo flowers, and now he has come forth to capture that fairy and draw her down into his stony palace.’ ‘To waste her days,’ laughed Eve, ‘in sighing for the sun, whilst her roses wither and her eyes grow dim, away from the twitter of the birds and the scent of the gorse. He shan’t have me.’ Then, after a pause, during which she gathered some marigolds and put them into her hat, she said, half seriously, half jestingly, ‘Do you believe in pixies?’ ‘You must not ask me. I have seen but one fairy in all my life, and she now sits before me.’ ‘Mr. Jasper,’ said Eve, with a dimple in her cheek, in recognition of the compliment,—’Mr. Jasper, do you know my mother is a mystery to me as much as pixies and fairies and white ladies?’ ‘No, I was not aware of that.’ ‘She was called, like me, Eve.’ ‘I had a sister of that name who is dead, and my mother’s name was Eve. She is dead.’ ‘I did not think the name was so common,’ said the girl. ‘I fancied we were the only two Eves that ever were. I do not know what my mother’s other name was. Is not that extraordinary?’ Jasper Babb made no reply. ‘I have been reading “Undine.” Have you read that story? O, it has made me so excited. The writer says that it was founded on what he read in an old author, and that author, Paracelsus, is one papa believes in. So, I suppose, there is some truth in the tale. The story of my mother is quite like that of Undine. One night my father heard a cry on the moor, and he went to the place, and found my mother all alone. She was with him for a year and a day, and would have stayed longer if my father could have refrained from asking her name. When he did that she was forced to leave him. She was never seen again.’ ‘Miss Eve, this cannot be true.’