“I knew that your uncle didn’t do it,” she went on.  “Father and mother couldn’t tell you.  So I had to.”

“Why couldn’t your father and mother tell me?”

“They didn’t dare.  Mr. Grimshaw made them promise that they would not speak to you or to any of your family.  I heard them say that you and your uncle did right.  Father told mother that he never knew a man so honest as your Uncle Peabody.”

We went on in silence for a moment.

“I guess you know now why I couldn’t let you go home with me that night,” she remarked.

“Yes, and I think I know why you wouldn’t have anything more to do with Henry Wills.”

“I hate him.  He said such horrid things about you and your uncle.”

In a moment she asked:  “What time is it?”

I looked at my new watch and answered:  “It wants ten minutes of five.”

“The stage is in long ago.  They will be coming up this road to meet me.  Father was going to take him for a walk before supper.”

Just then we came upon the Silent Woman sitting among the dandelions by the roadside.  She held a cup in her hand with some honey on its bottom and covered with a piece of glass.

“She is hunting bees,” I said as we stopped beside her.

She rose and patted my shoulder with a smile and threw a kiss to Sally.  Suddenly her face grew stern.  She pointed toward the village and then at Sally.  Up went her arm high above her head with one finger extended in that ominous gesture so familiar to me.

“She means that there is some danger ahead of you,” I said.

The Silent Woman picked a long blade of grass and tipped its end in the honey at the bottom of the cup.  She came close to Sally with the blade of grass between her thumb and finger.

“She is fixing a charm,” I said.

She smiled and nodded as she put a drop of honey on Sally’s upper lip.

She held up her hands while her lips moved as if she were blessing us.

“I suppose it will not save me if I brush it off,” said Sally.

We went on and in a moment a bee lighted on the honey.  Nervously she struck at it and then cried out with pain.

“The bee has stung you,” I said.

She covered her face with her handkerchief and made no answer.

“Wait a minute—­I’ll get some clay,” I said as I ran to the river bank.

I found some clay and moistened it with the water and returned.

“There, look at me!” she groaned.  “The bee hit my nose.”

She uncovered her face, now deformed almost beyond recognition, her nose having swollen to one of great size and redness.

“You look like Rodney Barnes,” I said with a laugh as I applied the clay to her afflicted nose.

“And I feel like the old boy.  I think my nose is trying to jump off and run away.”

The clay having been well applied she began surveying herself with a little hand mirror which she had carried in the pocket of her riding coat.