Suddenly, from the direction of the cemetery, an owl sent out a mournful cry, and a furious baying from the dog behind the house sounded.  He rose, walked to the window, and surveyed the bleak view through the curtains.  He again noted the tall trees threshing in the wind, and the looming monuments.  Still under the spell of pleasant day-dreams, Everett silently contemplated the gloomy aspect.  He had forgotten the owl and its harsh cry.

So deeply was he engrossed in his meditations that he did not hear the stealthy turning of the door-handle, and it was not until a distinct hiss reached his ears that he turned.  A woman, dripping with water, her gray hair hanging in wet strings about a withered face, stole toward him.  Everett was so taken aback by the sight of her and the hissing, cross-eyed cat perched on her shoulder that he could not speak.  A newly born superstition rose in his heart that the woman was a wraith.  Yet an indistinct memory made her black eyes familiar.  He did not move from the window, and Screech Owl sank to the floor.

“Little ’un,” she whispered, “I’ve comed for ye, little ’un!”

The sound of her hoarse voice stirred Everett’s senses.  He gave one step forward, and the woman spoke again: 

“I telled yer pappy that I’d bring ye!”

Brimbecomb shook his shoulders, his dread deepening.  What was the witch-like woman saying to him, and why was she calling him by the name he now remembered she had used before?  She crept nearer on her knees, her thin hands held up as if in prayer, and, with each swaying movement of her the cat shifted its position from one stooped shoulder to the other.

Everett found his voice, and asked sharply: 

“How did you get into the house?”

Scraggy put up her arm, drew the snarling cat under it, and looked stupidly at the man.  She was so close that he could see the steam rising from her wet clothes, and the hisses of the animal were audible above his own heavy breathing.  Screech Owl smoothed the cat’s bristling back.

“Pussy ain’t to hiss at my own pretty boy!” she whispered.  “He’s my little ’un—­he’s my little ’un!”

A premonition, born of her words, goaded Everett to action.

“Get up!” he ordered.  “Get up and get out of here!  Do you want me to have you arrested?”

Scraggy smiled.

“Ye wouldn’t have yer own mother pinched, little ’un.  I’m yer mammy!  Don’t ye know me?”

He moved threateningly toward her; but a snarl from the furious cat stayed him.

“You lie!  You crazy fool!  Get up, or I’ll kick you out of the house!  Get out, I say!  Every word you’ve uttered is a lie!”

“I don’t lie,” cried Scraggy.  “Ye be my boy.  Ain’t ye got a long dig on ye from—­from yer neck to yer arm—­a red cut yer pappy made that night I gived ye to the Brimbecomb woman?  The place were a bleedin’ and a bleedin’ all through your baby dress.  Wait!  I’ll show ye where it is.”  She scrambled up and advanced toward him.