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Upon the door of Gammer Gurney’s mysterious home John Aggett knocked, then a little nut-brown woman opened to him, nodded without affectation of superior parts, and even curtseyed in old-fashioned style at sight of Timothy.

“Your sarvant, young maister,” she said. “Be pleased to step in, an’ you’m welcome, I’m sure, though ’tis the home of poverty. Rest free, if that’s your errand—rest; an’ theer’s a gude cushioned chair to hold ’e tu, though you mightn’t count to find such here.”

The white witch had no peculiarities. She merely suggested a venerable and time-worn body whose life had not lacked tribulations and whose tether must be near at hand. But her dark eyes were very bright and her activity of body was still apparent.

Timothy lolled in the great “grandfather” chair and a red peat glow flamed on his leather gaiters from the fire; John sat near the door with a wandering and uneasy eye, ready to discover mystery and read secrets at every turn. He knew that to ask openly for the cordial he desired had been to make a hole in his manners. He therefore waited for his master to speak.