Eric stood looking at her, not thinking to say anything.  So after the briefest pause she went on, peeping into the pot.

“I see you have some mush here, so as I’ve come all the way from the farm and am ready for a second breakfast after my tussle with the wind, I’ll share it with you.  Or perhaps you have had yours already.”

“No, no,” cried Eric, suddenly remembering how hungry he was and hoping she would not take it all.  “I have just waked up.”

“So.  Then we’ll breakfast together,” and away she flew to the cupboard again and brought out a second bowl and spoon.  Then she stirred the mush round and round a few times and dished it up.  Eric noticed that she divided it exactly evenly.  She flooded both bowls with cream, and together they sat down to it.  What a good breakfast that was, and how fast the little old woman talked!

But in spite of all her talking and flying around she had looked Eric up and down and through and through, and made up her mind what kind of a person he was.  What she saw was a pale little boy of nine in a ragged shirt and trousers, and barefooted.  His hair was shaggy and unbrushed but tossed back from a wide brow.  His mouth was sullen.  But she forgot all about shabby clothes, unbrushed hair, and sullen mouth when she came to his eyes.  They were wide and clear, and returned the old woman’s keen glance with a gaze of steady interest.  Sullen and pale, but clear-eyed—­she liked the little stranger.  And so she went on talking.

“I bring them milk every day.  It’s a long way here from my farm, but not too far when it’s for them.  Helma’s gone into the village, hasn’t she?  When I came to Little Pine Hill this morning the snow stopped whirling for a minute, and I caught a glimpse of her a-striding across the fields.  It’s a fine way of walking she has—­like the bravest of Forest People!  When I reached the Tree Man’s the wind didn’t stop for me, but I spied that child, Ivra, just where I knew she’d be,—­racing and chasing and dancing with the Snow Witches out at the edge of the wood.  ’It’s a pity she can’t go with her mother,’ I said to myself when I saw her, ’and not be wasting her time like that.  The Snow Witches are no good to any one.  But—­’”

Eric interrupted there, having finished his mush and pricking up his cars at the mention of witches.

“Are they really witches?” he cried.  “And have you seen them yourself?”

“What else would they be?” asked the old woman.  “They’re the creatures that come out in windy, snowy weather, to dance in the open fields and run along country roads.  Ordinary people are afraid of them and stay indoors when they’re about.  Their streaming white hair has a way of lashing your face as they rush by, and then they never look where they’re going.  They care nothing about running into you and knocking the breath out of you.  Then, they’re so cruel to children!”

“But Ivra isn’t afraid of them!” wondered Eric.