Alison made round eyes. “What! no one ever asked you to wed?” “I said not that. I said that I never had a lover.” Alison fell to plaiting her apron, her head on one side. “Mother says that your father’s that sunk in notions of the learned that he’d never think of it, but she wonders that your uncle didn’t see fit to find you a husband.” “Does she? Well, one wonders over one thing and one over another.” “There are very few bachelors and marriageable men hereabouts,” said Alison, “but I suppose you’ll get that one of them you set your cap for.” “And why do you suppose that?” Alison, her head still on one side, looked aslant at the returned friend. “Oh, men are all for strange and new! Your tallness, now, that most people count a fault, and that colour hair and that colour eyes.... Yes, you’ll get the one you want.” “And if I want none?” “Oh!” said Alison, and laughed somewhat shrilly. “Have you got an elfin man for your true-love? You’ll not cheat me else with your ‘And if I want none?’” Joan twirled her distaff. “I do not wish to cheat you.—And you went with the smocks to Madam Carthew’s?” Alison bent, slipped off her shoe, and shook out of it a minute pebble. “And what do you mean by that?” “Mean? I mean naught,” said Joan. “I meant that she was a great lady, and the squire’s house must be fine to see. What didst think I meant?” But Alison would not divulge. All that came was, “_I_ noted you last Sunday, how you looked aside, during the singing, at the gentry in the squire’s pew! But they are godly people, and if you think that _they_ looked aside—” “In God’s name!” said Joan, “what is the matter with the wench?” But before she could find that out, here came one back—Mother Spuraway, to wit. She came hobbling up the green path to the gate, and stood beckoning. Joan rose and went to her. Mother Spuraway held in her hand a green herb taken up by the root with earth clinging to it. “It is rue, dearie,” she said. “There was a clump of it left by the burned cot a little way off. So I dug it up for you—” Joan took it. “Thank you. I’ll plant it now.” “You’ve got company,” said Mother Spuraway. “I’ll not come in. But I wanted to do somewhat for you—” She turned and hobbled off, her wavering old figure wavering away upon the twisting path. Joan went back to the doorstone with the rue in her hand. “Wasn’t that Mother Spuraway?” asked Alison. “I wouldn’t be seen talking to her. She’s a witch.” “She’s no such thing,” said Joan. “She’s only a wretched, poor old woman. Now, what did you mean about Sunday and church?” But her father came round the corner of the cottage, bringing with him Hugh the thatcher to have a look at the torn roof. Alison rose; the sun was getting low and she must be going. She went, and Joan, at that time, did not find out what she had meant. CHAPTER VIII THE SQUIRE’S BROTHER