"Didn't I say 'twas used outwardly, you gaby? Oil of man be rubbed 'pon the heart, or be burnt like a candle. In that shaape 'tis a torch held up for them wanderin' in the world to come home to others as yearns for 'em. Both ways be precious deeds. Theer ban't none wanderin' she wants; so us must rub it 'pon her heart against this fit she'm suffering from."
"Wheer's such a thing to be got?"
"You ax that! As for preparin' the bones, 'tis my work. Gettin' of 'em be a man's."
Mr. Cramphorn breathed hard.
"A sure cure?" he asked.
"Sure as Scripture. An' a thing knawed for centuries, so my mother used to tell me. She made it a score o' times a'most. Men was braver then."
"Just—churchyard—bones," murmured Jonah with an expression like a dog half frightened, half angry.
"The skull of a man—no more. Bones as have held human brains. I'll do my paart for ten shillin'—same as you gived me when——"
"Hush, for the Lard's sake! Doan't 'e go back to that."
She laughed.