"'Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite! Elf of eve! and starry fay! Ye that love the moon's soft light, Hither--hither wend your way; Twine ye in a jocund ring; Sing and trip it merrily, Hand to hand and wing to wing, Round the wild witch-hazel tree.'" "If I were a goblin, I'd come, for music like that," cried Burt, as they started rapidly homeward. "You are much too big to suggest a culprit fay," said Amy. "But the description of the fay's charmer is your portrait," he replied, in a low tone: "'But well I know her sinless mind Is pure as the angel forms above, Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, Such as a spirit well might love.'" "Oh, no; you are mistaken, I'm not meek in the least. Think of the punishment: "'Tied to the hornet's shardy wings, Toss'd on the pricks of nettles' stings;' you know the rest." "What witchery has got into you to-night, Amy?" "Do you think I'm a witch? Beware, then. Witches can read men's thoughts." "That last song was so good that I, for one, would be glad of more," cried Webb. "You men must help us, then," said Miss Hargrove, and in a moment the wild, dim forest was full of melody, the rocks and highlands sending back soft and unheeded echoes. Burt, meantime, was occupied with disagreeable reflections. Perhaps both the girls at last understood him, and had been comparing notes, to his infinite disadvantage. His fickleness and the dilemma he was in may have become a jest between them. What could he do? Resentment, except against himself, was impossible. If Amy understood him, in what other way could she meet any approach to sentiment on his part than by a laughing scorn? If Miss Hargrove had divined the past, or had received a hint concerning it, why should she not shun his society? He was half-desperate, and yet felt that any show of embarrassment or anger would only make him appear more ridiculous. The longer he thought the more sure he was that the girls were beginning to guess his position, and that his only course was a polite indifference to both. But this policy promised to lead through a thorny path, and to what? In impotent rage at himself he ground his teeth during the pauses between the stanzas that he was compelled to sing. Such was the discord in his heart that he felt like uttering notes that would make "night hideous."