“Horrible perhaps to those that believe in them, but you see I don’t,” retorted Sylvia.

“All the same,” said Mortimer in his even, dispassionate tone, “I should avoid the woods and orchards if I were you, and give a wide berth to the horned beasts on the farm.”

It was all nonsense, of course, but in that lonely wood-girt spot nonsense seemed able to rear a bastard brood of uneasiness.

“Mortimer,” said Sylvia suddenly, “I think we will go back to town some time soon.”

Her victory had not been so complete as she had supposed; it had carried her on to ground that she was already anxious to quit.

“I don’t think you will ever go back to town,” said Mortimer. He seemed to be paraphrasing his mother’s prediction as to himself.