She danced down the steep path with an armful of wraps, at the idea of wearing which she had made faces. The path led steeply in a zigzag down one side of the quarry cliff, where Abel had told Hazel of the cow falling, and where she had felt drodsome. Once more as she came down with a more and more lagging step, the same horror came over her. 'I'm frit!' she cried; 'canna we be quick?' But speed was not in Mrs. Marston. She came clinging to Edward's arm, very cautiously, like a cat on ice. Martha, her stout red arms bare, her blue gingham dress and white apron flying in the wind, was directed to hold on to Mrs. Marston's mantle behind--as one tightens the reins downhill--to keep her on her feet. Edward was carrying a kitchen chair for his mother to sit on during the journey. Hazel felt that they were none of them any good; they none of them knew what it was like to be frit. So she ran away, and left the hot, secretive, omniscient place with its fierce white and its crafty shadows. She reached a tiny field that ran up to the woods, and there, among the brilliantly varnished buttercups, the bees sounded like the tides coming in on the coasts of faery. Hazel forgot her dread--an inexplicable sickening dread of the quarry. She chased a fat bumble-bee all across the golden floor--one eager, fluffy, shining head after the other. They might have been, in the all-permeating glory on their hill terrace, with the sapphire-circled plain around--they might have been the two youngest citizens of Paradise, circled in for ever from bleak honeyless winter, bleak honeyless hearts. The slow cortege came down the path, Martha being obliged, as the descent grew steeper, to fling herself back like a person in a tug-of-war, for Mrs. Marston gathered way as she went, and uttered little helpless cries. 'I'm going, Martha! I'm losing control! Not by the bugles, Martha! Not by the braid!' When they reached the road, the traction engine was not in sight, so they sat in the bank and waited, Mrs. Marston regal in the chair; and Hazel held a buttercup under Edward's chin to see if he liked butter. 'Very warm and pleasant,' murmured Mrs. Marston, and dropped into a doze. Edward listened to the thrushes; they were flinging their voices--as jugglers fling golden balls--against the stark sides of the quarry. Up went a rush of bright notes, pattered on the gloomy wall, and returned again defeated. To Edward, as he watched Hazel, they seemed like people thanking God for blessings, and being heard and blessed again. To Hazel, they seemed so many other Hazels singing because it was a festal day. To Mrs. Marston they were 'noisy birds, and very disturbing.' Martha crotcheted. She was making edging, hundreds of yards of it, for wedding garments. This was all the more creditable, as it was an act of faith, for no young man had as yet seemed at all desirous of Martha.