“God knows,” said Martin, as they went along, “what trade they follow; no mortal comes to them; for the place they live in is as if bewitched and excommunicated, so that even our wildest fellows will not venture into it.”

Such conversation they pursued while walking to the fields.  That gloomy spot they spoke of lay apart from the hamlet.  In a dell, begirt with firs, you might behold a hut and various dilapidated farm-houses; rarely was smoke seen to mount from it, still more rarely did men appear there; though at times curious people, venturing somewhat nearer, had perceived upon the bench before the hut some hideous women, in ragged clothes, dandling in their arms some children equally dirty and ill-favored; black dogs were running up and down upon the boundary; and, at eventide, a man of monstrous size was seen to cross the foot-bridge of the brook, and disappear in the hut; then, in the darkness, various shapes were observed, moving like shadows round an open fire.  This piece of ground, the firs, and the ruined hut, formed in truth a strange contrast with the bright green landscape, the white houses of the hamlet, and the stately new-built castle.

The two little ones had now eaten their fruit; it came into their heads to run races; and the little nimble Mary always got the start of the less active Andrew.  “It is not fair,” cried Andrew at last; “let us try it for some length, then we shall see who wins.”

“As thou wilt,” said Mary; “only to the brook we must not run.”

“No,” said Andrew; “but there, on the hill, stands the large pear-tree, a quarter of a mile from this.  I shall run by the left, round past the fir-ground; thou canst try it by the right, over the fields; so we do not meet till we get up, and then we shall see which of us is the swifter.”

“Done,” cried Mary, and began to run; “for we shall not interfere with each other by the way, and my father says it is as far to the hill by that side of the gipsies’ house as by this.”

Andrew had already started, and Mary, turning to the right, could no longer see him.  “It is very silly,” said she to herself; “I have only to take heart, and run along the bridge, past the hut, and through the yard, and I shall certainly be first.”  She was already standing by the brook and the clump of firs.  “Shall I?  No; it is too frightful,” said she.  A little white dog was standing on the farther side, and barking with might and main.  In her terror, Mary thought the dog some monster, and sprang back.  “Fie! fie!” said she, “the dolt is gone half way by this time, while I stand here considering.”  The little dog kept barking, and, as she looked at it more narrowly, it seemed no longer frightful, but, on the contrary, quite pretty; it had a red collar round its neck, with a glittering bell; and as it raised its head, and shook itself in barking, the little bell sounded with the finest tinkle.  “Well, I must risk it!” cried she:  “I will run for life; quick, quick, I am through; certainly to Heaven, they cannot eat me up alive in half a minute!” And with this, the gay, courageous little Mary sprang along the foot-bridge; passed the dog, which ceased its barking, and began to fawn on her; and in a moment she was standing on the other bank, and the black firs all round concealed from view her father’s house and the rest of the landscape.