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 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!' Mrs. Marston's drowsiness forsook her. Hazel became conscious for tension. 'Mother!'--Edward's voice shook with suppressed laughter, although he was indignant with Hazel's father for such a mistaken upbringing--'mother, would you give Hazel the receipt for this splendid cake?'