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 visit, usually rather dreaded, became the visit of their lives instead. It was Aunt Sophia this time who seemed discouraging and dull.

'She's got so old and funny,' opined Stephen.

But Alice, who felt in the silent displeasure of her aunt some secret thing that alarmed her, said:

'I think she's afraid of the woods. She never comes into them with us, you see.'

'All the more reason then for making this wall impreg—all fat and thick and solid,' he concluded, unable to manage the longer word.' Then nothing—simply nothing—can get through. Can't it, Uncle David?'

And Mr. Bittacy, jacket discarded and working in his speckled waistcoat, went puffing to their aid, arranging the massive limb of the cedar like a hedge.

'Come on,' he said,' whatever happens, you know, we must finish before it's dark. Already the wind is roaring in the Forest further out'. And Alice caught the phrase and instantly echoed it. 'Stevie,' she cried below her breath, 'look sharp, you lazy lump. Didn't you hear what Uncle David said? It'll come in and catch us before we've done!'

They worked like Trojans, and, sitting beneath the wisteria tree that climbed the southern wall of the cottage, Mrs. Bittacy with her knitting watched them, calling from time to time insignificant messages of counsel and advice. The messages passed, of course, unheeded. Mostly, indeed, they were unheard, for the workers were too absorbed. She warned her husband not to get too hot, Alice not to tear her dress, Stephen not to strain his back with pulling. Her mind hovered between the homeopathic