“Good-day,” said the old woman again. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you, my pretty maid! I mind you running about in the woods, playing as it were with your shadow, with your hair braided down! Now you wear it under a cap as is proper. I’m Mother Spuraway, who lives beyond the mill-race.” “I remember now,” said Joan. “I had forgotten. Will you sit down?” She brought a stool and set it for her visitor. The other lowered herself stiffly. “Oh, my old bones! I’ll sit for a minute, sweetheart, but what I wanted to ask you—” She took Joan by the apron and held her with shaking fingers. “I wanted to ask you if you wouldn’t be Christian enough to spare me a measure of meal? I’ll swear by the church door and the book of prayer that I haven’t had bite nor sup since this time yesterday!” She fell to whimpering. Joan stood, considering her with grey eyes. “Yes, I’ll give you some meal. But what! They used to say that you were well-to-do.” “Aye, aye!” said Mother Spuraway. “They said sooth. I didn’t lack baked nor brewed, no, nor silver sixpences!—for, look you, I knew all the good herbs. But alack, alack! times are changed with me.... I’m hungry, I’m hungry, and my gown’s ragged that once was good and fine, and my shoes are not fit to go to church in. Woe’s me—woe’s me—woe’s me!” Joan went indoors and returned with a piece of bread and a cup of milk. Mother Spuraway seized them and ate and drank with feeble avidity. “Good maid—a good maid!” “Why do they come to you no more?” asked Joan. Mother Spuraway put down the empty cup. “Partly, there’s a leech come to these parts has stolen my trade. I’ll not say he doesn’t know the herbs, too, but I knew them as well as he, and I knew them first! But mostly, oh, dear heart! because there’s been raised a hue and cry that I didn’t cure with innocence—as though I didn’t cure as innocently as him! But I’m old—I’m old!... I never had aught to do even with white magic. There was healing in the herbs and that and good sense was enough. But I’m old—old, and they bear hard upon women.... And I hear that there’s a buzz of talk and I may be taken up. I know Master Clement’s been against me since ever he came to the parish—” She began to weep, painful slow tears of age. Joan looked at her with a knitted brow. “There, mother, there, mother! I would not let them that hurt me make me weep. See! I’ll give you your meal, and it will all come straight.” She brought her a full measure, and a great share of her baking of bread besides. Mother Spuraway blessed her for a pitiful maid, got painfully to her feet, and said she would be going. “You’ve good herbs in your garden, but I see no rue. If I be straying this way again I’ll bring you a bit for planting.”