And he also stooped for the button. But she had got it, and she stood back with it pressed against her little coat, her black eyes flaring at him, as if to forbid him to notice her. Then, having silenced him, she turned with a swift “Mother——,” and was gone down the path. The mother had stood watching impassive, looking not at the child, but at Brangwen. He became aware of the woman looking at him, standing there isolated yet for him dominant in her foreign existence. He did not know what to do, and turned to his sister. But the wide grey eyes, almost vacant yet so moving, held him beyond himself. “Mother”, I may have it, mayn’t I?” came the child’s proud, silvery tones. “Mother”—she seemed always to be calling her mother to remember her—“mother”—and she had nothing to continue now her mother had replied “Yes, my child.” But, with ready invention, the child stumbled and ran on, “What are those people’s names?” Brangwen heard the abstract: “I don’t know, dear.” He went on down the road as if he were not living inside himself, but somewhere outside. “Who _was_ that person?” his sister Effie asked. “I couldn’t tell you,” he answered unknowing. “She’s _somebody_ very funny,” said Effie, almost in condemnation. “That child’s like one bewitched.” “Bewitched—how bewitched?” he repeated. “You can see for yourself. The mother’s plain, I must say—but the child is like a changeling. She’d be about thirty-five.” But he took no notice. His sister talked on. “There’s your woman for you,” she continued. “You’d better marry _her._” But still he took no notice. Things were as they were. Another day, at tea-time, as he sat alone at table, there came a knock at the front door. It startled him like a portent. No one ever knocked at the front door. He rose and began slotting back the bolts, turning the big key. When he had opened the door, the strange woman stood on the threshold. “Can you give me a pound of butter?” she asked, in a curious detached way of one speaking a foreign language. He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in her very standing motionless, which affected him? He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside. He went into the kitchen and she followed. His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her. She stood motionless just inside the kitchen. “Tilly,” he called loudly, “have we got any butter?” The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak. “Eh?” came the shrill cry from the distance. He shouted his question again. “We’ve got what’s on t’ table,” answered Tilly’s shrill voice out of the dairy.