The herb "organies," or wild marjoram, was still drunk as tea in Mrs. Stanbury’s days, and decoctions of it were widely used after local recipes for local ills. "This here Chinese tea be a lot nicer to my taste, all the same," said Bart. "We have it Sundays, and I wouldn’t miss it for money." "We drink it every day," said David. "Ah! you rich folk can run to it, no doubt." "But we don’t brew so strong as what you do," added young Bowden. "This is far too strong," declared Mrs. Stanbury, instantly. "It have stood over long, and the bitter be drawed out." "That’s my fault for being late," answered Margaret. "No fault of yours, mother." "I like the bitter," said Bart. "’Tis pretty drinking and proper to work on. Cider isn’t in it with cold tea." Dusk gathered, and the firelight flickered in the little whitewashed kitchen. Then David mentioned a project near his hopes. "You thought you’d found a fox’s earth ’pon Coombeshead Tor," he said to Madge. "I do think so; and if you’ve made an end of eating, us’ll go an’ see afore ’tis dark." "I’ve finished, and very much obliged, I’m sure." David rose, picked up his felt hat and bade the parent Stanburys "good-evening." Then he and Margaret went out together. Bart prepared to accompany them, when suddenly, as if shot, he sank down into his chair again beside his father and put his hand to his chin. "Why for did ’e kick me, faither?" he asked when the lovers had disappeared. "You silly zany! They don’t want you!" Bart grinned. "He be after Madge--eh?" "Wait till you’m daft for something in a petticoat yourself, then you’ll understand--eh, mother?" "I suppose so, master. We shall lose ’em both, without a doubt; ’tis Nature," she said. Meantime Margaret and David climbed into the gloaming on Coombeshead Tor, and she talked to him, and for the first time let him know how much the wonderful granite masses of this hill meant to her. "I was born on the farm, you know, and this place was my playground ever since I could run alone. A very lonely little girl, because Bart was six year older than me, and mother never had none but us. I never had no toys or nothing of that sort; but these gerstones was my dollies, and I used to give ’em names, an’ play along with ’em, an’ sleep among ’em when I was tired. That fond of chattering I was, that I must be talking if ’twas only to the stones! Never was a cheel cut out for minding babies like me; and yet I’ve not had a baby to mind in my life!" He listened and enjoyed her voice, but felt not much emotion at what she told him. "So these boulders were my babies; an’ now this one took a cold and wanted nursing; an’ now this one was tired and I had to sing it to sleep. And I’d bring ’em flowers an’ teach ’em their lessons, an’ put ’em to bed an’ all the rest of it. They all had their names too, I warrant you!" "’Twas a very clever game to think upon," he said.