She was exactly like the pictures of witches in story books, only she had not a broomstick or a high-pointed hat. She had instead a dirty cap that had once been white, and a rusty gown that had once been black, and a streaky shawl that might once, perhaps, have been scarlet. But nobody could be sure of that now. There was a black cat sitting on a very dirty wooden settle, and the old woman herself sat on a rickety three-legged stool, her wrinkled face bent over a speckled hen which she was nursing in her lap and holding gently in her yellow, wrinkled hands.
As soon as Edred caught sight of her through the crooked doorway, he stopped. “I’m not going in,” he said, “what’s the good? We know jolly well she hasn’t bewitched us. And if we go cheeking her she may, and then we shall be in a nice hole.”
“There’s the tea and sugar,” said Elfrida.
“You just give it her and come away. I’ll wait for you by the stile.”
So Elfrida went into the cottage alone, and said “Good morning” in rather a frightened way.
“I’ve brought you some tea and sugar,” she said, and stood waiting for the “Thank you,” without which it would not be polite to say “Good morning” and to go away.
The “Thank you” never came. Instead, the witch stopped stroking the hen, and said—
“What for? I’ve not done you no ’arm.”
“No,” said Elfrida. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
“Then what have you brought it for?”