"Proud I am, I'm sure," he said. "And as for him, the Black Hunter, that's no more than another name for the Devil himself. 'Twas thought that he'd come here by night with his great, bellowing, red-eyed dogs, and go forth to hunt souls. A coal-black horse he rode; but sometimes he'd set out afoot, for 'tis well remembered how once in the deep snow, on a winter morn, human footprints, along with hoofmarks, were traced to the top of the hill, but not down again!" "The devil flew away with somebody?" "So the old story says. But I like the thought of the little Heath Hounds better. For they hunt and harry old Nick's self. They are the spirits of the young children who die before they are baptised; and the legend hath it that they win to heaven soon or late by hunting the Prince of Darkness. 'Tis the children that we bury with maimed rites upon 'Chrisomers' Hill' in the churchyard. They put that poor woman who killed herself in the same place, because the old parson wouldn't read 'sure and certain hope' over her." But Cora was not interested in his conversation, though she pretended to be. She endeavoured to turn speech into a more personal road. "What have you come here for? I hadn't any idea you ever took walks alone." "I take hundreds--terrible poor hand at neighbouring with people, I am--like my father. But I'm here to work--getting handles for tools. There's no wood for light tools like alder. You know the old rhyme-- 'When aller's leaf is so big as a penny, The stick will wear so tough as any.' That's true enough, for I've proved it." "Set to work and I'll watch you, if I may." "Proud, I'm sure. And I'll see you home after. But there's no haste. I was thinking that bare, dark corner in the garden at Undershaugh might do very nice for ferns--if you'd care----?" "The very thing! How kind to think of it. I love the garden and the flowers. But none else cares about them. D'you think you could get me one of they king ferns? But I suppose that would be too much to ask." "I'll get you more than one." "I'll try to plant 'em then, but I'm not very clever." "I'll come and make a bit of a rockery myself, if--if you like." "'Like!" I should love it. But 'tis very good of you to bother about a stupid girl." "Don't you say that. Far, far from stupid. Never was a cleverer girl, I'm sure." She shook her head and talked about the ferns. Then she became personal. "I've always felt somehow with you; but I suppose it ban't maidenly to say such things--but I've always felt as you understood me, Mark." "Ah!" he said. "And as for me, I've felt--God, He knows what I've felt." The man broke off, and she smiled at him and dropped her eyes. She knew the thing that shared his heart with her, and now spoke of it.