"What else would they be?" asked the old woman. "They're the creatures that come out in windy, snowy weather, to dance in the open fields and run along country roads. Ordinary people are afraid of them and stay indoors when they're about. Their streaming white hair has a way of lashing your face as they rush by, and then they never look where they're going. They care nothing about running into you and knocking the breath out of you. Then, they're so cruel to children!"
"But Ivra isn't afraid of them!" wondered Eric.
"Not she," said the old woman. "She runs with them instead of away from them. When I saw them back there they had all taken hands and were leaping in a circle around her. She was jumping and dancing in the center as wild and lawless as they, and just as high, too.... But it's a pity she isn't with her mother all the same, going on decent errands in the village. Only of course it's not her fault, poor child! She daren't go into the village."
"Why daren't she?" asked Eric.
"How dare she?" cried the old woman. "She'd be seen, for she's only part fairy, of course. But hush, hush!"
She clapped her hands over her mouth. "What am I telling you,—one of the secrets of the forest, and you a stranger here? You must forget it all. Ivra's a good child. Now don't ask me any more questions, or I might tell you more."
But Eric had begun to wonder. What did it mean, that Ivra was part fairy? And why wasn't it safe for her to be seen in the village? And were there really witches, and was she playing with them out there in the wild day?
The old woman was talking on, but he heard no more.
Then the door blew open in a snowy gust of wind, and there stood Helma, the mother, her arms full of bundles, her cheeks ruddy from the wind, and her short hair crisp and blown.