“It’s true, every word of it,” said his listener with considerable satisfaction, adding as a special descriptive note of her own, “the old toad.”

And as she hobbled away through the farmyard she shrilled out in her cracked voice, “Martha Pillamon is an old witch!”

“Did you hear what she said?” mumbled a weak, angry voice somewhere behind Crefton’s shoulder. Turning hastily, he beheld another old crone, thin and yellow and wrinkled, and evidently in a high state of displeasure. Obviously this was Martha Pillamon in person. The orchard seemed to be a favourite promenade for the aged women of the neighbourhood.

“ ’Tis lies, ’tis sinful lies,” the weak voice went on. “ ’Tis Betsy Croot is the old witch. She an’ her daughter, the dirty rat. I’ll put a spell on ’em, the old nuisances.”

As she limped slowly away her eye caught the chalk inscription on the barn door.