Martin concealed himself with speed, and an instant later the farmer's burly face peered through the gap in the hedge.

"Good morrow, maids."

"Good morrow, master."

"Has my daughter stopped weeping yet?"

"No, master," said Joyce, "but I begin to think that she will before long."

"A little longer will be too long," moaned Gillman, "for my purse is running dry with these droughty times, and I shall have to mortgage the farm to buy me ale, since I am foiled of both water and milk. Who would have daughters when he might have sons? Gillian!" he cried, "when will ye learn that old heads are wiser than young ones?"

But Gillian paid no more attention to him than to the cawing rooks in the elms in the oatfield.

"Take your bread, maids," said Gillman, "and heaven send us grace to-morrow."

"Just an instant, master," said Joyce. "I would like to know if Blossom my Shorthorn is well?"

"As well as a child without its mother, maid, though Michael has turned nurse to her. But she seems sworn to hold back her milk till you come again. Rack and ruin, nothing but rack and ruin!"

And off he went.

Then breakfast was prepared as on the previous day, and Gillian's stale loaf was broken for the ducks. But Joscelyn pointed out that one of the kissing-crusts had been pulled off in the night.

"Your stories, Master Pippin, are doing their work," said she.

"I begin to think so," said Martin cheerfully. And then they fell to on their own white loaves and sweet apples.

When they had breakfasted Martin observed that he could make better and longer daisy-chains than any one else in the world, and his statement was pooh-poohed by six voices at once. For girls' fingers, said these voices, had been especially fashioned by nature for the making of daisy-chains. Martin challenged them to prove this, and they plucked lapfuls of the small white daisies with big yellow eyes, and threaded chains of great length, and hung them about each other's necks. And so deft and dainty was their touch that the chains never broke in the making or, what is still more delicate a matter, in the hanging. But Martin's chains always broke before he had joined the last daisy to the first, and the girls jeered at him for having no necklace to match their necklaces of pearls and gold, and for failing so contemptibly in his boast. And he appeared so abashed by their jeers that little Joan relented and made a longer chain than any that had been made yet, and hung it round his neck. At which he was merry again, and confessed himself beaten, and the girls became very gracious, being in their triumph even more pleased with him than with themselves. Which was a great deal. And by then it was dinner-time.

After dinner Martin proposed that as they had sat all the morning they should run all the afternoon, so they played Touchwood. And Martin was He. But an orchard is so full of wood that he had a hard job of it. And he observed that Jennifer had very little daring, and scarcely ever lifted her finger from the wood as she ran from one tree to another; and that Jane had no daring at all, and never even left her tree. And that Joscelyn was extremely daring when it was safe to be so; and that Jessica was daring enough to tweak him and run away, while Joyce was more daring still, for she tweaked him and did not run. As for little Joan, she puzzled him most of all; for half the time she outdid them all in daring, and then she was uncatchable, slipping through his very fingers like a ray of sunlight a child tries to hold; but the other half of the time she was timidity itself, and crept from tree to tree, and if he were near became like a little frightened rabbit, forgetting, or being through fear unable, to touch safety; and then she was snared more easily than any.

By supper, however, every maid had been He but Jane. For no man can catch what doesn't run.

"How the time has flown," said Joscelyn, when they were all seated about the middle tree after the meal.

"It makes such a difference," said Jennifer, "when there's something to do. We never used to have anything to do till Master Pippin came, and now life is all games and stories."

"The games," said Joscelyn, "are well enough."

"Shall we," said Martin, "forego the stories?"

"Oh, Master Pippin!" said Jennifer anxiously, "we surely are to have a story to-night?"

"Unless we are to remain here for ever," said Martin, "I fear we must.

But for my part I am quite happy here. Are not you, Mistress Joscelyn?"

"Your questions are idle," said she. "You know very well that we cannot escape a story."

"You see, Mistress Jennifer," said Martin. "Let us resign ourselves therefore. And for your better diversion, please sit in the swing, and when the story is tedious you will have a remedy at hand."

So saying, he put Jennifer on the seat and her hands on the ropes, and the five other girls climbed into the tree, while he took the bough that had become his own. And all provided themselves with apples.

"Begin," said Joscelyn.

"A story-teller," said Martin, "as much as any other craftsman, needs his instruments, of which his auditors are the chief. And of these I lack one." And he fixed his eyes of the weeper in the Well-House.

"You have six already," said Joscelyn. "The seventh you must acquire as you proceed. So begin."

"Without the vital tool?" cried Martin. "As well might you bid Madam Toad to spin flax without her distaff."

"What folly is this?" said Joscelyn. "Toads don't spin."

"Don't they?" said Martin, much astonished. "I thought they did. What then is toadflax? Do the wildflowers not know?"

And still keeping his eyes fixed on Gillian he thrummed and sang--

Toad, toad, old toad, What are you spinning?

Seven hanks of yellow flax Into snow-white linen.

What will you do with it Then, toad, pray?

Make shifts for seven brides Against their wedding-day.

Suppose e'er a one of them Refuses to be wed?

Then she shall not see the jewel I wear in my head.

As he concluded, Gillian raised herself on her two elbows, and with her chin on her palms gazed steadily over the duckpond.

Joscelyn: Why seven?

Martin: Is it not as good a number as another?

Jennifer: What is the jewel like in the toad's head, Master Pippin?

Martin: How can I say, Mistress Jennifer? There's but one way of knowing, according to the song, and like a fool I refused it.

Jennifer: I wish I knew.

Martin: The way lies open to all.

Joscelyn: These are silly legends, Jennifer. It is as little likely that there are jewels in toads' heads as that toads spin flax. But Master Pippin pins his faith to any nonsense.

Martin: True, Mistress Joscelyn. My faith cries for elbow-room, and he who pins his faith to common-sense is like to get a cramp in it.

Therefore since women, as I hear tell, have ceased to spin brides'

shifts, I am obliged to believe that these things are spun by toads.

Because brides there must be though the wells should run dry.

Joscelyn: I do not see the connection. However, it is obvious that the bad logic of your song has aroused even Gillian's attention, so for mercy's sake make short work of your tale before it flags again.

Martin: I will follow your advice. And do you follow me with your best attention while I turn the wheel of The Mill of Dreams.