Mary held her head high. "We'll soon be home, Dickie. And the first thing I'm going to do is to hug Mummy and say we're sorry. I 'spect David will come to meet us. 'Spect he's up on the mountain now."

They hurried up the path and soon left the trees behind. Once Dickie turned and saw the Devil's Chair still standing gaunt and black against the skyline, and then they came to the top at last and started across the heather.

"After all, I wish I'd had some tea," Dickie said after a little.

"I'm cold," Mary complained. "The sun's gone. Hurry up, Dickie! I want to get home. So does Mackie."

Something had happened to the weather. A damp, cold wind touched them gently, and as they looked round, bewildered, the outline of the rolling hilltop wavered and grew indistinct.

Dickie turned back the way they had come, and slowly pointed across the valley to the Stiperstones. The hills were there, but looked different. Softer.

"Mary," he whispered. "Look! The Chair's not there. It's gone. It's like Bill said, Mary. He's in his chair..."

And the mist came rolling silently across the valley as if a giant was blowing great balls of soft white cotton wool.

6. Hatchholt

As Mrs Morton, with Tom and David, hurried down the lane to Ingles, she said, "The twins were looking very innocent. Do you think they'll be all right, David?"

He thought so. Sometimes it was almost a relief to be without them for an hour or two, and he was hoping that the bicycles would be at the station so that he could do some more exploring.

Mrs. Ingles was very upset when they arrived. They found her sitting in one chair with her swollen and bandaged foot resting on another. She was helpless and in pain.

"Look in on your way back from the station, David," his mother said, "just in case you can be useful here."

"I'll be here when you come back," Tom called,

David set off up the lane and turned to look back at Witchend, where old John had stopped the car on the night of their arrival. What a lot had happened since then! Meeting Tom and Peter, trailing the stranger in the raincoat, and finding Appledore and, most exciting of all, founding the Lone Pine Camp. At the top of the hill where their lane joined the Onnybrook road he realized that although cycles would be useful, they would have to do a great deal of walking. It was certainly a county of hills. All the roads and lanes twisted and climbed and fell away again like crazy switchbacks. Every corner promised surprise, and rarely disappointed, and as he swung down to the village through the overhanging woods, the tinkle of running water followed him.

Once he passed a brown-faced man cutting and trimming the hedges.

"'Mornin'!" he called. "You're from Witchend, I take it?"