“These very many weary days, child.” “Your honour expected me, then?” “Hourly.” “And now that you behold me?” “Now, Rose, the sun shines, the birds sing, the scabious flowers are a-dance in their myriad hosts, and here standeth John Derwent to woo thee——” “Well, go ’way!” snarled the Aged One fiercely. “Go ’way; us doan’t want ’ee no’ow, young man! Us be a-’arking to each other an’ doan’t want nobody—du us, my pretty? Lord, ’e du ha’ put me out! Wot was oi a-tellin’ ye, my dainty dear?” “Of the day you and Sir Hector saved old Penelope the witch from being drowned ... but the sun is very hot, pray put your hat on again, Mr. Dumbrell! Nay, suffer me!” So saying, my lady took the well-brushed hat and set it upon the old, white head so gently and with such pretty grace that the Aged One leered at Sir John in chuckling triumph. “Us doan’t want ’ee, young man, du us, my flower?” “Indeed,” she laughed, “but you find wondrous pretty names for me——” “Because ’tis purty you be ... no, ’andsome’s the word—a foine ’andsome wench.” “But over-large for a flower, I fear,” she sighed. “Sizeable!” nodded the Aged One. “But oi loikes ’em big—allus did. So doan’t ’ee worrit naun ’count o’ y’r size. An’ as fur ol’ Penelope, ’er desarved arl ’er got, bein’ a witch.... An’ when it come to savin’ of ’er, I dunno as Sir ’Ector done so tur’ble much! Oi be an ol’ ancient man, but oi bean’t nowise doddlish, an’ can save a witch as well as some young ’uns an’ better’n most—ah, that oi can!” “I’m sure of it! And is she still alive?” “That she be. Witches bean’t easy to kill an’ doan’t aften doi—not in Sussex, they doan’t. Oi been buryin’ folk arl my days an’ oi only buried one witch, an’ ’er only doied because she ’appened to drown, not being able to swim wi’ a stone round ’er neck, d’ye see——” “A—a stone?” exclaimed my lady in tones of horror. “Aye, a stone fur sure, my pretty. Toied ’un round ’er neck, they did, an’ ’ove ’er into the river, they did, an’ so ’er doied. But this were years an’ ages ago, when oi were younger. And ol’ Penelope be a tur’ble powerful witch—give me a spell agin the axey as done me arl manner o’ good.” “Did she cure you by magic?” “Lord bless y’r pretty eyes—no! There bean’t nobody nor nothink can cure oi, what wi’ that theer ol’ musket-ball o’ mine. But oi were moighty bad, an’ ’long come a man one day in a p’inted ’at an’ a gownd wi’ silver stars on to it an’ sold me a charm wrote on a three-carnered piece o’ paper wi’ these words as oi were to say three toimes over, marnin’, noon an’ noight: Axey, axey oi defoi thee, Three days shiver, three days shake, Mak’ me well fur Marcy’s sake.