he big brewing-vat!" exclaimed the woman, "haven't you got
stories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.
Here are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even
the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and
the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen
to stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done
here, and other things to notice!"

"What do you mean by that?" asked the man, "and what do you know
of the world? You don't see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps!"

"Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps," said the Moor-woman,
"for they're out--they're let loose--that's what we must talk about!
Come to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will
tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your
seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still
fresh, and the moon stands high!"

And the Moor-woman was gone.

It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had
died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood
in the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her
brewing.

"You've been a long time coming!" said the Moor-woman. "Witches
get forward faster than men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch
folk!"

"What have you to say to me now?" asked the man. "Is it anything
about the Story?"

"Can you never get beyond asking about that?" retorted the woman.

"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?" resumed
the man.

"Don't get on your stilts," said the crone, "and I'll answer
you. You think of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story,
as if she were the lady of the whole troop. She's the oldest of us
all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I've
been young, too, and she's no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty
elf-maiden, and have danced in my time with the others in the
moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the
forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there,
running about. Sometimes she took up her night's lodging in a
half-blown tulip, or in a field flower; sometimes she would slip
into the church, and wrap herself in the mourning crape that hung down
from the candles on the altar."

"You are capitally well-informed," said the man.

"I ought at least to know as much as you," answered the
Moor-woman. "Stori