“What kind of spell?� asked Anne, still mirthful.
“A spell to hurt me, Miss Anne; to give me a misery, maybe to kill me, if I tromp on it.�
“But I came in this door and it didn’t hurt me,� said Anne.
“Naw’m. It can’t hurt you, ’cause ’twa’n’t laid in yore name. ’Twas put dar for me.�
“Why do you think Solomon Gabe—he looks mean enough for anything!—put a spell for you?�
“He’s mad with me, Miss Anne. I—I can’t tell you de why an’ de wherefore. Dey say de birds o’ de air will let ’em know if I tell anything. Miss Anne, don’t you breath what I done said.� The old woman groaned. “Uh, dese is trouble times, trouble times! Who is dem folks comin’ up de walk, Miss Anne? Dey ain’t de kind o’ folks dat come visitin’ to Larkland.�
Anne had joined her Cousin Polly in the hall when the three rough, loud-talking men—Jake Andrews, Bill Jones, and Joe Hight—came stamping up the front steps. Mrs. Osborne met them with the cordiality that a Virginia country house has for any guest, even the unexpected and unknown. Wouldn’t they come in and let Chrissy bring them some fresh water? She was sorry her husband was not at home.
“We saw him go away,� said Andrews, shortly. “They said he was carrying pigeons to Richmond, to fly back home.�
“Oh! Yes,� she said in a noncommittal way.
“Was he?� asked Andrews, fixing his beadlike black eyes on her face.