“Mrs. Gedye, the fact is I am curious about an old charm that was practised in these parts, as I know, till recently.  The charm is this—­When a woman guesses her lover to be faithless to her, she buries a suit of his old clothes to fetch him back to her.  Mrs. Bolverson, up at Sheba yonder—­”

The old woman had opened her mouth (as I know now) to curse me.  But as Mrs. Bolverson’s name escaped me, she turned her back, and walked straight to her door and into the kitchen.  Her manner told me that I was expected to follow.

But I was not prepared for the face she turned on me in the shadow of the kitchen.  It was grey as wood-ash, and the black eyes shrank into it like hot specks of fire.

“She—­she set you on to ask me that?” She caught me by the coat and hissed out:  “Come back from the door—­don’t let her see.”  Then she lifted up her fist, with the mint tightly clutched in it, and shook it at the warm patch of Sheba buildings across the valley.

“May God burn her bones, as He has smitten her body barren!”

“What do you know of this?” she cried, turning upon me again.

“I know nothing.  That I have offered you some insult is clear:  but—­”

“Nay, you don’t know—­you don’t know.  No man would be such a hound.  You don’t know; but, by the Lord, you shall hear, here where you’m standin’, an’ shall jedge betwix’ me an’ that pale ’ooman up yonder.  Stand there an’ list to me.

“He was my lover more’n five-an’-thirty years agone.  Who?  That ’ooman’s wedded man, Seth Bolverson.  We warn’t married”—­this with a short laugh.  “Wife or less than wife, he found me to his mind.  She—­she that egged you on to come an’ flout me—­was a pale-haired girl o’ seventeen or so i’ those times—­a church-goin’ mincin’ strip of a girl—­the sort you men-folk bow the knee to for saints.  Her father owned Sheba Farm, an’ she look’d across on my man, an’ had envy on ‘en, an’ set her eyes to draw ‘en.  Oh, a saint she was!  An’ he, the poor shammick, went.  ’Twas a good girl, you understand, that wished for to marry an’ reform ‘en.  She had money, too. I?  I’d ha’ poured out my blood for ’en:  that’s all I cud do.  So he went.

“As the place shines this day, it shone then.  Like a moth it drew ’en.  Late o’ summer evenin’s its windeys shone when down below here ’twas chill i’ the hill’s shadow.  An’ late at night the candles burned up there as he courted her.  Purity and cosiness, you understand, an’ down here—­he forgot about down here.  Before he’d missed to speak to me for a month, I’d hear ‘en whistlin’ up the hill, so merry as a grig.  Well, he married her.