But I was so much amazed at her knowing my name and all about me, that I feared to place my hand in her power, or even my tongue by speaking.

“Have no fear of me, my son; I have no gift to harm thee; and if I had, it should be idle.  Now, if thou hast any wit, tell me why I love thee.”

“I never had any wit, mother,” I answered in our Devonshire way; “and never set eyes on thee before, to the furthest of my knowledge.”

“And yet I know thee as well, John, as if thou wert my grandson.  Remember you the old Oare oak, and the bog at the head of Exe, and the child who would have died there, but for thy strength and courage, and most of all thy kindness?  That was my granddaughter, John; and all I have on earth to love.”

Now that she came to speak of it, with the place and that, so clearly, I remembered all about it (a thing that happened last August), and thought how stupid I must have been not to learn more of the little girl who had fallen into the black pit, with a basketful of whortleberries, and who might have been gulfed if her little dog had not spied me in the distance.  I carried her on my back to mother; and then we dressed her all anew, and took her where she ordered us; but she did not tell us who she was, nor anything more than her Christian name, and that she was eight years old, and fond of fried batatas.  And we did not seek to ask her more; as our manner is with visitors.

But thinking of this little story, and seeing how she looked at me, I lost my fear of Mother Melldrum, and began to like her; partly because I had helped her grandchild, and partly that if she were so wise, no need would have been for me to save the little thing from drowning.  Therefore I stood up and said, though scarcely yet established in my power against hers,—­

“Good mother, the shoe she lost was in the mire, and not with us.  And we could not match it, although we gave her a pair of sister Lizzie’s.”

“My son, what care I for her shoe?  How simple thou art, and foolish! according to the thoughts of some.  Now tell me, for thou canst not lie, what has brought thee to me.”

Being so ashamed and bashful, I was half-inclined to tell her a lie, until she said that I could not do it; and then I knew that I could not.

“I am come to know,” I said, looking at a rock the while, to keep my voice from shaking, “when I may go to see Lorna Doone.”

No more could I say, though my mind was charged to ask fifty other questions.  But although I looked away, it was plain that I had asked enough.  I felt that the wise woman gazed at me in wrath as well as sorrow; and then I grew angry that any one should seem to make light of Lorna.

“John Ridd,” said the woman, observing this (for now I faced her bravely), “of whom art thou speaking?  Is it a child of the men who slew your father?”

“I cannot tell, mother.  How should I know?  And what is that to thee?”