“Yes,” said Sylvie: “and _once_, do you know, I made him _audible_, and forgot to make him _visible_! And he went to buy some sweeties in a shop. And the man _was_ so frightened! A voice seemed to come out of the air, ‘Please, I want two ounces of barley-sugar drops!’ And a shilling came _bang_ down upon the counter! And the man said ‘I ca’n’t _see_ you!’ And Bruno said ‘It doosn’t sinnify seeing _me_, so long as oo can see the _shilling_!’ But the man said he never sold barley-sugar drops to people he couldn’t _see_. So we had to—_Now_, Bruno, you’re ready!” And away he trotted. Sylvie spent the time, while we were waiting for him, in making _herself_ visible also. “It’s rather awkward, you know,” she explained to me, “when we meet people, and they can see _one_ of us, and ca’n’t see the _other_!” In a minute or two Bruno returned, looking rather disconsolate. “He’d got friends with him, and he were _cross_!” he said. “He asked me who I were. And I said ‘I’m Bruno: who is _these_ peoples?’ And he said ‘One’s my half-brother, and t’other’s my half-sister: and I don’t want no more company! Go along with yer!’ And I said ‘I ca’n’t go along _wizout_ mine self!’ And I said ‘Oo shouldn’t have _bits_ of peoples lying about like that! It’s welly untidy!’ And he said ‘Oh, don’t talk to _me_!’ And he pushted me outside! And he shutted the door!” “And you never asked where Hunter’s farm was?” queried Sylvie. “Hadn’t room for any questions,” said Bruno. “The room were so crowded.” “Three people _couldn’t_ crowd a room,” said Sylvie. “They _did_, though,” Bruno persisted. “_He_ crowded it most. He’s such a welly _thick_ man—so as oo couldn’t knock him down.” I failed to see the drift of Bruno’s argument. “Surely _anybody_ could be knocked down,” I said: “thick or thin wouldn’t matter.” “Oo couldn’t knock _him_ down,” said Bruno. “He’s more wider than he’s high: so, when he’s lying down, he’s more higher than when he’s standing: so a-course oo couldn’t knock him _down_!” “Here’s another cottage,” I said: “_I’ll_ ask the way, _this_ time.” There was no need to go in, this time, as the woman was standing in the doorway, with a baby in her arms, talking to a respectably dressed man—a farmer, as I guessed—who seemed to be on his way to the town. “—and when there’s _drink_ to be had,” he was saying, “he’s just the worst o’ the lot, is your Willie. So they tell me. He gets fairly mad wi’ it!” “I’d have given ’em the lie to their faces, a twelvemonth back!” the woman said in a broken voice. “But a’ canna noo! A’ canna noo!” She checked herself, on catching sight of us, and hastily retreated into the house, shutting the door after her. “Perhaps you can tell me where Hunter’s farm is?” I said to the man, as he turned away from the house.