They looked after this boy and he became a great light and play to them. When he was better they took him with them, wrapped in a mantle, into the wood and sat him in the sunshine. Diccon Dawn felled a tree and hewed it into logs for the manor house, Alice Dawn brought faggots, heaping together for the manor cart. When they must rest they sat in the sun with the boy, and the great wind rushed and laughed and clattered in the wood. “Tell me a story!” said the boy. Richard told saint’s legend, Christ-child story. “Now you tell one!” Morgen told the story of the Great Good Elf. Afterwards Richard said, “We could not have told those stories if we were not getting well.” In the cot at night, in the firelight, again the boy. “Tell me a story--tell me a story!” “All our lives to make these stories. All our lives of us all!” “All!” The child slept, the little flame sang, bough of tree struck the cot. They sat and seemed to look down and seemed to look up a road that went forever. Wild flowers appeared. The child gathered them. Morgen wore a knot at her bosom, Richard one in his cap. “Tell me a story--tell me a story!” The charcoal burner came and took away his son. He gave rude thanks and said that henceforth they were friends. They missed the lad until they found that they had him still. The wind pushed the high cloud ships and certain trees put on their earliest touch of green. They rested in the wood from chopping and gathering, and seated upon the felled tree, smelled the fragrance of the world. “Tell me a story--tell me a story--” Again within the cot, and the wind fell at purple twilight, then rose again roaring, and the flame bent this way and bent that. Quiet together--still together. “What is fire?” “What is beauty?” “What is music?” April air, April wood. Rang the axe, bent and straightened the faggot gatherer. Showers came up, but thick fir trees gave shelter. Rain stopped. Being upon a little eminence in the wood they saw the great bow, the seven-coloured bridge. April rain, April greenery, April sunshine. The axe rang, the tree fell. They rested from toil, leaning against the sunken mass, and waiting so, became aware of the movement of horses, coming nearer through the wood, and presently of voices. Sit quietly behind branches of felled tree, and let all go by, at a little distance, five or six of them! But they came nearer and nearer, brushing through the wood, a hawking party from a great house the other side a line of low hills, cutting off a distance by leaving the road and crossing this piece of earth. Nearer and nearer, and presently it was seen that they would pass the felled tree. The woodchopper and the faggot gatherer sat still.