'It's got to suit,' said Una, and laughed. 'We can't magic back at you.' She folded her arms and leaned against the gate. 'Suppose, now, you wanted to magic me into something--an otter? Could you?' 'Not with those boots round your neck.' 'I'll take them off.' She threw them on the turf. Dan's followed immediately. 'Now!' she said. 'Less than ever now you've trusted me. Where there's true faith, there's no call for magic.' Puck's slow smile broadened all over his face. 'But what have boots to do with it?' said Una, perching on the gate. 'There's cold iron in them,' said Puck, and settled beside her. 'Nails in the soles, I mean. It makes a difference.' 'How?' 'Can't you feel it does? You wouldn't like to go back to bare feet again, same as last year, would you? Not really?' 'No--o. I suppose I shouldn't--not for always. I'm growing up, you know,' said Una. 'But you told us last year, in the Long Slip--at the theatre--that you didn't mind Cold Iron,' said Dan. '_I_ don't; but folk in housen, as the People of the Hills call them, must be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen are born on the near side of Cold Iron--there's iron in every man's house, isn't there? They handle Cold Iron every day of their lives, and their fortune's made or spoilt by Cold Iron in some shape or other. That's how it goes with Flesh and Blood, and one can't prevent it.' 'I don't quite see. How do you mean?' said Dan. 'It would take me some time to tell you.' 'Oh, it's ever so long to breakfast,' said Dan. 'We looked in the larder before we came out.' He unpocketed one big hunk of bread and Una another, which they shared with Puck. 'That's Little Lindens' baking,' he said, as his white teeth sunk in it. 'I know Mrs. Vincey's hand.' He ate with a slow sideways thrust and grind, just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb. The sun flashed on Little Lindens' windows, and the cloudless sky grew stiller and hotter in the valley. 'Ah--Cold Iron,' he said at last to the impatient children. 'Folk in housen, as the People of the Hills say, grow so careless about Cold Iron. They'll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to put it over the back. Then, some time or other, the People of the Hills slip in, find the cradle-babe in the corner, and----' 'Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,' Una cried. 'No,' said Puck firmly. 'All that talk of changelings is people's excuse for their own neglect. Never believe 'em. I'd whip 'em at the cart-tail through three parishes if I had my way.' 'But they don't do it now,' said Una.