oo. I've given
you seizin of Old England, and I've taken away your Doubt and Fear, but
your memory and remembrance between whiles I'll keep where old Billy
Trott kept his night-lines--and that's where he could draw 'em up and
hide 'em at need. Does that suit?' He twinkled mischievously.

'It's got to suit,' said Una, and laughed. 'We can't magic back at you.'
She folded her arms and leaned against the gate. 'Suppose, now, you
wanted to magic me into something--an otter? Could you?'

'Not with those boots round your neck.'

'I'll take them off.' She threw them on the turf. Dan's followed
immediately. 'Now!' she said.

'Less than ever now you've trusted me. Where there's true faith, there's
no call for magic.' Puck's slow smile broadened all over his face.

'But what have boots to do with it?' said Una, perching on the gate.

'There's cold iron in them,' said Puck, and settled beside her. 'Nails
in the soles, I mean. It makes a difference.'

'How?'

'Can't you feel it does? You wouldn't like to go back to bare feet
again, same as last year, would you? Not really?'

'No--o. I suppose I shouldn't--not for always. I'm growing up, you
know,' said Una.

'But you told us last year, in the Long Slip--at the theatre--that you
didn't mind Cold Iron,' said Dan.

'_I_ don't; but folk in housen, as the People of the Hills call them,
must be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen are born on the near side of
Cold Iron--there's iron in every man's house, isn't there? They handle
Cold Iron every day of their lives, and their fortune's made or spoilt
by Cold Iron in some shape or other. That's how it goes with Flesh and
Blood, and one can't prevent it.'

'I don't quite see. How do you mean?' said Dan.

'It would take me some time to tell you.'

'Oh, it's ever so long to breakfast,' said Dan. 'We looked in the larder
before we came out.' He unpocketed one big hunk of bread and Una
another, which they shared with Puck.

'That's Little Lindens' baking,' he said, as his white teeth sunk in it.
'I know Mrs. Vincey's hand.' He ate with a slow sideways thrust and
grind, just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb.
The sun flashed on Little Lindens' windows, and the cloudless sky grew
stiller and hotter in the valley.

'Ah--Cold Iron,' he said at last to the impatient children. 'Folk in
housen, as the People of the Hills say, grow so careless about Cold
Iron. They'll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and