"No. Well, perhaps," said the Beautiful Wicked Witch. "Will you come then?" "I can't, I suppose, if Mother Helma doesn't want me to. Are you sure she doesn't, Ivra?" Ivra was sure. The Beautiful Wicked Witch laughed then. "Of course, if you _tell_ her she won't let you come. But if you came without telling, how could she mind?" "That sounds true,--but someway it can't be," said Ivra. And that seemed to end it. But after a little the Beautiful Wicked Witch began another story. This one was about a frock she had made, a wonderful thing all of cobwebs and violet petals, with tiniest rosebuds around the neck. If Ivra were to slip that frock over her head, and unbraid her funny little pigtails, she would look as pretty as any fairy in the world. Ivra was not too young to want to be pretty. If she would only go to the Beautiful Wicked Witch's house, she could try on that dress, and wear it for one whole day if she liked. Ivra clasped her hands. But then she thought, and asked a question. "Could I play in it, and run and climb? Would I be as free as in this little old brown smock?" The Beautiful Wicked Witch raised her hands in horror. "My cobweb frock! Why, it would be ruined! It would be in shreds! How can you even think of treating it so!" So Ivra shook her head until her funny little pigtails flopped from side to side. "I don't want to wear it then for even a minute. What fun would there be?" "Well, think about it anyway," said the Beautiful Wicked Witch, and rose to go away. "It's the fir, you know, beyond the white birch." "Thank you for the stories," said the children. "Good-by," said the Beautiful Wicked Witch. "Perhaps Eric will remember and come. It's a gorgeous bird, and I haven't said he couldn't free it." Then she slipped out into the snow flakes, turning to give them one dancing look over her shoulder before the door swung to. Up flamed the candles, clear high flames when she was gone, and the fire crackled again, and took on new life, reaching higher and higher. They got their supper together rather silently. But just before going to sleep Ivra roused herself to say, "Let's promise each other we won't go to the Beautiful Wicked Witch's fir until mother comes home,--and we can tell her how jolly the Witch is, and what good stories she told us." "I don't want to go anyway," answered Eric, "unless I can free the bird."--But you see, he had not promised. After a while, "Did you notice how pale her face was when she wasn't laughing?" asked Eric. "Yes, and not so beautiful then. Mother may come in the night, and we never know it till morning!" Soon they were asleep, a tired, but happy little girl and boy. I think the Tree Mother sank down in her air-boat to look in at them and open the door wide, which they had forgotten, so they would have fresh air all night; but it was dark, and the room was shadowy, so perhaps it was only the wind. CHAPTER IX THE WIND HUNT