Joyce crawled through the crisp ferns till she was close to Joan, sitting solid and untroubled and busy upon the ground, with broken stems and leaves all round her.
“Joan,” she begged. “Be nice. You’re trying to frighten me, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” protested Joan. “I did see a wood-lady. Wood-ladies doesn’t hurt you; wood-ladies are nice. You’re a coward, Joyce.”
“I can’t help it,” said Joyce, sighing. “But I won’t go into the dark parts of the wood any more.”
“Coward,” repeated Joan absently, but with a certain relish.
“You wouldn’t like to go there by yourself,” cried Joyce. “If I wasn’t with you, you’d be a coward too. You know you would.”
She stopped, for Joan had swept her lap free of débris and was rising to her feet. Joan, for all her plumpness and infantile softness, had a certain deliberate dignity when she was put upon her mettle. She eyed her sister with a calm and very galling superiority.
“I’m going there now,” she answered; “all by mineself.”
“Go, then,” retorted Joyce angrily.
Without a further word, Joan turned her back and began to plough her way across the ferns toward the dark wood. Joyce, watching her, saw her go, at first with wrath, for she had been stung, and then with compunction. The plump baby was so small in the brooding solemnity of the pines, thrusting indefatigably along, buried to the waist in ferns. Her sleek brown head had a devoted look; the whole of her seemed to go with so sturdy an innocence toward those peopled and uncanny glooms. Joyce rose to her knees to call her back.