“I think it’s TOO fine,” criticized Felicity.  “Peg Bowen won’t know the meaning of such big words.”

But it was decided to leave them in and we all signed the letter.

Then we got our “testimonials,” and started on our reluctant journey to the domains of the witch.  Sara Ray would not go, of course, but she volunteered to stay with Pat while we were away.  We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of our errand, or its nature.  Grown-ups had such peculiar views.  They might forbid our going at all—­and they would certainly laugh at us.

Peg Bowen’s house was nearly a mile away, even by the short cut past the swamp and up the wooded hill.  We went down through the brook field and over the little plank bridge in the hollow, half lost in its surrounding sea of farewell summers.  When we reached the green gloom of the woods beyond we began to feel frightened, but nobody would admit it.  We walked very closely together, and we did not talk.  When you are near the retreat of witches and folk of that ilk the less you say the better, for their feelings are so notoriously touchy.  Of course, Peg wasn’t a witch, but it was best to be on the safe side.

Finally we came to the lane which led directly to her abode.  We were all very pale now, and our hearts were beating.  The red September sun hung low between the tall spruces to the west.  It did not look to me just right for a sun.  In fact, everything looked uncanny.  I wished our errand were well over.

A sudden bend in the lane brought us out to the little clearing where Peg’s house was before we were half ready to see it.  In spite of my fear I looked at it with some curiosity.  It was a small, shaky building with a sagging roof, set amid a perfect jungle of weeds.  To our eyes, the odd thing about it was that there was no entrance on the ground floor, as there should be in any respectable house.  The only door was in the upper story, and was reached by a flight of rickety steps.  There was no sign of life about the place except—­sight of ill omen—­a large black cat, sitting on the topmost step.  We thought of Uncle Roger’s gruesome hints.  Could that black cat be Peg?  Nonsense!  But still—­it didn’t look like an ordinary cat.  It was so large—­and had such green, malicious eyes!  Plainly, there was something out of the common about the beastie!

In a tense, breathless silence the Story Girl placed our parcels on the lowest step, and laid her letter on the top of the pile.  Her brown fingers trembled and her face was very pale.

Suddenly the door above us opened, and Peg Bowen herself appeared on the threshold.  She was a tall, sinewy old woman, wearing a short, ragged, drugget skirt which reached scantly below her knees, a scarlet print blouse, and a man’s hat.  Her feet, arms, and neck were bare, and she had a battered old clay pipe in her mouth.  Her brown face was seamed with a hundred wrinkles, and her tangled, grizzled hair fell unkemptly over her shoulders.  She was scowling, and her flashing black eyes held no friendly light.