Soon afterwards, as they turned their horses' heads toward Prince Town, Peter observed a strange, tall figure proceeding on foot in the same direction. It was as though one of the moorland crosses from the Abbot's Way had come to life and stole over the wilderness upon some superhuman errand. "Look!" cried Norcot, "a walking scarecrow!" Grace recognised the being, and laughed. "A 'scarecrow,' you say. That's the richest woman on Dartmoor!" "A woman--and a wealthy one? Impossible!" "'Tis Lovey Lee, an old servant of my grandfather's. By chance she lives here within a few miles of Fox Tor Farm. We shall pass her hovel presently." "Was it not she whom your father accused of stealing the amphora when Sir Nicholas died?" "Yes; and he still vows that she has it, for all her oaths to the contrary. She's a weird old woman. Her grandson, John, tells me that she lives upon frogs and herb tea." They were now abreast of the dame, and Peter inspected her carefully. "Tut, tut! She does not throw away money upon her apparel," he said. "No--isn't it horrid? I think she wears old sacks chiefly." "And reduces them to the minimum. Her naked feet must be made of iron." "Good morning, Lovey," said Grace. "Have you been to Holne? No; I see that you haven't, for you carry no basket." "Mornin', maiden; an' to you, my gentleman," she answered very civilly. "No more Holne for me. I've got a better market for my poor goods now; an' nearer." "The War Prison?" "Ess fay! Plenty of money there for them that have anything to sell. I can scrape a few pence out of they Americans every week; though how I keep body an' soul together is my daily wonder." "You would do it easier if you wore more petticoats, granny," said Peter. "Petticoats!" she answered. "'Tis very well for the likes of you, bursting wi' fatness under your fine linen, to talk o' petticoats. Give me a crown an' I'll buy one--since you'm so anxious about it." "Why, you're the richest woman on the Moor, Lovey," said Grace. "You know perfectly well that you have a gold mine hidden away somewhere." The old woman showed her teeth and growled like a dog. "Don't you tell that trash, or you'll make me your enemy I promise you! A gold mine--some 'crock o' gold' hid at a rainbow's foot or in a dead man's grave--like the fools tell about up here. I wish I knowed where. Do a woman salt down reptiles and make her meal of blind-worms and berries if she have got a gold mine hidden?" "That's just what father says you would do," answered Grace. "Tell Malherb to mind his business," she answered sourly, "or 'twill be the worse for him. 'Twill take him all his time to find a gold mine under Fox Tor, anyway, let alone the Lord's hand being against him for stealing the earth from the meek, as was meant to inherit it." "Nothing of the sort," answered Grace, with great indignation. "She's a horrid old story-teller, Peter." But Norcot never quarrelled with man or mouse.