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It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood in the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her brewing. "You've been a long time coming!" said the Moor-woman. "Witches get forward faster than men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch folk!" "What have you to say to me now?" asked the man. "Is it anything about the Story?" "Can you never get beyond asking about that?" retorted the woman.

The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her brewing. "You've been a long time coming!" said the Moor-woman. "Witches get forward faster than men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch folk!" "What have you to say to me now?" asked the man. "Is it anything about the Story?" "Can you never get beyond asking about that?" retorted the woman. "Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?" resumed the man. "Don't get on your stilts," said the crone, "and I'll answer you.

"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?" resumed the man. "Don't get on your stilts," said the crone, "and I'll answer you. You think of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story, as if she were the lady of the whole troop. She's the oldest of us all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I've been young, too, and she's no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty elf-maiden, and have danced in my time with the others in the moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there, running about.
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