“There is none that is sick at the squire’s house,” said Alison in a strange voice, “but Agnes, Madam Carthew’s woman. They’ve taken her from the house and put her in a room by the stable, and the family goes freely forth.—Why did you look as you were glad, Joan?” “If I did, God forgive me!” said Joan. “In the deep of me there is no ill-wishing.—Presently, the leech says, it will be all safe here, as, indeed, it’s clean and sun-washed and safe to-day. Then I hope you’ll both come to see me—” Cecily gave a gibing, elfin laugh. “Are you going to live here all alone—like a witch?” The grey and white cat had advanced beyond Joan and now stood upon the sunny path between the daffodil points. What happened none of the three saw; perhaps a dog crossed the track behind the two visitors, perhaps the creature recognized human hostility—be that as it may, the cat suddenly arched its back, its hair rose, its mouth opened. “Ah-h!” cried Cecily. “Look at her cat!” A curious inspiration, not of light, passed like a cloud-shadow over Alison’s face. “It doesn’t like what you said, Cis! It’s her familiar.—Come away! We’d best be going.” They turned. Lightning came against them from Joan’s grey eyes. “Yes, go! And come not here again! Do you hear?—Come not here again!” Her voice followed them up the green path. “Come not here again—” The next day she went to get wood from the edge of the forest. She had gathered her load of faggots, and was sitting upon them, resting, in her hand a fallen bird’s nest, when Will the smith’s son happened that way. The two had known each other to speak to in a friendly way for many a year; it used to be that, coming or going from the Grange, he might at any time stop for a minute before the cottage for a crack with old Heron and maybe with Joan herself. That time had come to an end with Joan and her father’s going to the castle; when they came back he had been, as it were, afraid of new graces and manners. Moreover, old Master Hardwick had presently died, and so Will left the employment of the Grange and had little need any more to come and go by Hawthorn Forest. It might be that, save at church, they had not seen each other for months. Moreover, he had been away to the nearest port. Now he greeted her with friendliness and an honest-awkward speech of sorrow for old Heron’s death. “He was a good man and, fegs! so learned!—Am sorry for thee, Joan. And what will’t do now?” Joan turned the grey and empty nest in her hands. “I do not know,” she said drearily; then, with a backward fling of her shoulders and a lift of courage, “The cottage’s mine. And I always sell the flax I spin. I’ll bide and spin and keep the place.” Will shook his head compassionately. “A lass like thou—! In no time thou’dst be talked of and called ill names. Either thou must take service or marry—”