“And so can I!” said Grandfer Cantle. 

 “No, no, you can’t, my sonnies. That fire is not much less than a mile off, for all that ’a seems so near.” 

 “’Tis in the heath, but no furze,” said the turf-cutter. 

 “’Tis cleft-wood, that’s what ’tis,” said Timothy Fairway. “Nothing would burn like that except clean timber. And ’tis on the knap afore the old captain’s house at Mistover. Such a queer mortal as that man is! To have a little fire inside your own bank and ditch, that nobody else may enjoy it or come anigh it! And what a zany an old chap must be, to light a bonfire when there’s no youngsters to please.” 

 “Cap’n Vye has been for a long walk today, and is quite tired out,” said Grandfer Cantle, “so ’tisn’t likely to be he.” 

 “And he would hardly afford good fuel like that,” said the wide woman. 

 “Then it must be his granddaughter,” said Fairway. “Not that a body of her age can want a fire much.” 

 “She is very strange in her ways, living up there by herself, and such things please her,” said Susan. 

 “She’s a well-favoured maid enough,” said Humphrey the furze-cutter, “especially when she’s got one of her dandy gowns on.” 

 “That’s true,” said Fairway. “Well, let her bonfire burn an’t will. Ours is well-nigh out by the look o’t.” 

 “How dark ’tis now the fire’s gone down!” said Christian Cantle, looking behind him with his hare eyes. “Don’t ye think we’d better get home-along, neighbours? The heth isn’t haunted, I know; but we’d better get home.... Ah, what was that?” 

 “Only the wind,” said the turf-cutter. 

 “I don’t think Fifth-of-Novembers ought to be kept up by night except in towns. It should be by day in outstep, ill-accounted places like this!” 

 “Nonsense, Christian. Lift up your spirits like a man! Susy, dear, you and I will have a jig—hey, my honey?—before ’tis quite too dark to see how well-favoured you be still, though so many summers have passed since your husband, a son of a witch, snapped you up from me.” 

 This was addressed to Susan Nunsuch; and the next circumstance of which the beholders were conscious was a vision of the matron’s broad form whisking off towards the space whereon 

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