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“Then ’tis a pure, natural beast wi’ no dark tricks to un, if ’twas theer. A witch hare wouldn’t go in them plaaces. A right hare—sure enough, an’ heavy tu. Thank ’e kindly; an’ if you comes round arter Christmas I’ll cure the skin for ’e, Jan Aggett. ’Twill make a proper cap against the hard weather.”

John scraped and offered respectful thanks; then refreshments became the subject of Timothy Chave’s speech.

“You haven’t a cup of milk by you, mother? I’m thirsty as a fish.”

“Milk—ess fay; but none for you. Ban’t drink for grawed men, if you ax me. But I’ve—well, no call to name it. Yet ’tis a wholesome sort o’ tipple took in reason an’ took hot. You bide here. I’ll be back direckly minute.”

She disappeared through a low door at the side of the kitchen and locked it behind her. In five minutes she returned with the promised refreshment and poured it from a square earthenware crock into two large cups. These she half filled with brandy, then added hot water from a kettle, and finally dropped a lump of yellow candy into each, with mingled spices from a shining black box.