“Look out, Zitli!” cried Honor. “There comes Séraphine, on the other side!”
She-goats do not butt; nevertheless, Séraphine, sidling quietly up, evidently meant mischief. She stretched her neck toward the brimming pail; another moment, and—whack! the crutch caught her too, and she retired shaking her head violently.
“What possesses the creatures?” cried Honor.
“The pixies are riding them, mademoiselle!” replied Zitli. “Ohé, Gretli! the pail is full, and the creatures are ridden.”
Gretli came hastening out to lift the heavy pail, and scold the unruly goats, which scattered in every direction at sight of her; some up the mountain, some down, away they went, leaping from stone to stone, till not one was to be seen save old Moufflon, standing on a point of rock and gravely bleating reproof to his troublesome flock.
Zitli followed Gretli into the house, and while she disappeared into the dairy, he came and sat down by Honor’s window-seat. He hoped mademoiselle had slept well; pain, that was not agreeable, no indeed. He rejoiced to hear that it was nearly gone this morning.
“Are the goats always so mischievous, Zitli?” asked Honor.
“Not always! often, yes; but I hold it not wholly the fault of the creatures. To-day, for example, they are pixy-ridden, that sees itself easily.”
“What do you mean, Zitli?”
“Mademoiselle knows about the pixies? No? True, they are of the mountains; in cities, one hears, they are not known, but here—yes, indeed! They are like men, only small, small, and full of mischief. At times, they are visible to mortals, at others not; it is as they please. Mademoiselle permits that I bring my work-bench, yes? Like that, I can talk better; that is, if mademoiselle would care to hear?”