Joyce: It is easier promised than proved. But here is the hair. Martin: Are you certain it is the same hair? Joyce: I kept it wound round my finger. Martin: I know no better way of keeping a hair. So here it goes! And he held the hair to his lips and blew on it. Martin: A blessing on it. It will soon be wedded. Joyce: I have your word on it. Martin: You shall have your eyes on it if you will tell me one thing. Joyce: Is it a little thing? Martin: It's as trifling as a hair. I wish only to know why you have fallen out with men. Joyce: For the best of reasons. Why, Master Pippin! they say the world is round! Martin: Heaven preserve us! was ever so giddy a statement? Round? Why, the world's as full of edges as the dealings of men and women, in which you can scarcely go a day's march without reaching the end of all things and tumbling into heaven. I tell you I have traveled the world more than any man living, and it takes me all my time to keep from falling off the brink. Round? The world is one great precipice! Joyce: I said so! I said so! I know I was right! I should like to tell--them so. Martin: Were you only able to go out of the Orchard, you would be free to tell--them so. They are such fools, these men. Joyce: Not in all matters, Master Pippin, but certainly in this. They are good at some things. Martin: For my part I can't think what. Joyce: They whitewash cowsheds beautifully. Martin: Who wouldn't? Whitewash is such beautiful stuff. No, let us be done with these round-minded men and go to bed. Good night, dear milkmaid. Joyce: Ah, but singer! you have not yet proved your fable of the two hairs, which you swore were as hard to keep apart as the two lovers in your tale. "Whom love guarded against accidents," said Martin; and he held out to her the third finger of his left hand, and wound at its base were the two hairs, in a ring as fine as a cobweb. She took his finger between two of hers and laughed, and examined it, and laughed again. "You have been playing the god of love to my hairs," said Joyce. "Somebody must protect those that cannot, or will not, be kind to themselves," said Martin. And then his other fingers closed quickly on her hand, and he said: "Dear Mistress Joyce, help me to play the god of love to Gillian, and give me your key to the Well-House, because there were moments when you feared my tale would end unhappily." She pulled her hand away and began to swing rapidly, without answering. But presently she exclaimed, "Oh, oh! it has dropped!" "What? what?" said Martin anxiously. But she only cried again, "Oh, my heart! it has dropped under the swing." "In love's name," said Martin, "let me recover your heart." He groped in the grass and found what she had dropped, and then was obliged to fall flat on his back to escape her feet as she swung. "Well, any time's a time for laughing," said Martin, crawling forth and getting on his knees. "Here's the key to your heart, laughing Joyce."