“What gipsy bogie?”

“Dunno; never zeen ’e.  Megan zays ‘e zets there; an’ old Jim zeed ’e once.  ‘E was zettin’ there naight afore our pony kicked—­in father’s ’ead.  ’E plays the viddle.”

“What tune does he play?”

“Dunno.”

“What’s he like?”

“’E’s black.  Old Jim zays ’e’s all over ’air.  ’E’s a praaper bogle.  ’E don’ come only at naight.”  The little boy’s oblique dark eyes slid round.  “D’yu think ’e might want to take me away?  Megan’s feared of ’e.”

“Has she seen him?”

“No.  She’s not afeared o’ yu.”

“I should think not.  Why should she be?”

“She zays a prayer for yu.”

“How do you know that, you little rascal?”

“When I was asleep, she said:  ‘God bless us all, an’ Mr. Ashes.’  I yeard ’er whisperin’.”

“You’re a little ruffian to tell what you hear when you’re not meant to hear it!”

The little boy was silent.  Then he said aggressively: 

“I can skin rabbets.  Megan, she can’t bear skinnin’ ’em.  I like blood.”

“Oh! you do; you little monster!”

“What’s that?”

“A creature that likes hurting others.”

The little boy scowled.  “They’m only dead rabbets, what us eats.”

“Quite right, Nick.  I beg your pardon.”

“I can skin frogs, tu.”

But Ashurst had become absent.  “God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!” And puzzled by that sudden inaccessibility, Nick ran back to the stream where the giggling and shouts again uprose at once.

When Megan brought his tea, he said: 

“What’s the gipsy bogle, Megan?”

She looked up, startled.

“He brings bad things.”

“Surely you don’t believe in ghosts?”

“I hope I will never see him.”

“Of course you won’t.  There aren’t such things.  What old Jim saw was a pony.”

“No!  There are bogies in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago.”

“They aren’t gipsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gipsies came.”

She said simply:  “They are all bad.”

“Why?  If there are any, they’re only wild, like the rabbits.  The flowers aren’t bad for being wild; the thorn trees were never planted—­and you don’t mind them.  I shall go down at night and look for your bogie, and have a talk with him.”

“Oh, no!  Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes!  I shall go and sit on his rock.”

She clasped her hands together:  “Oh, please!”

“Why!  What ’does it matter if anything happens to me?”

She did not answer; and in a sort of pet he added: 

“Well, I daresay I shan’t see him, because I suppose I must be off soon.”

“Soon?”

“Your aunt won’t want to keep me here.”

“Oh, yes!  We always let lodgings in summer.”

Fixing his eyes on her face, he asked: