“I hope I will never see him.”
“Of course you won't. There aren't such things. What old Jim saw was a pony.”
“No! There are bogies in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago.”
“They aren't gipsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gipsies came.”
She said simply: “They are all bad.”
“Why? If there are any, they're only wild, like the rabbits. The flowers aren't bad for being wild; the thorn trees were never planted—and you don't mind them. I shall go down at night and look for your bogie, and have a talk with him.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes! I shall go and sit on his rock.”
She clasped her hands together: “Oh, please!”
“Why! What 'does it matter if anything happens to me?”