The days went on, and Stephen received no summons to the Wise Woman’s hut. He found it very hard to keep away. If he could only have known that all was going on right! But weeks and months passed by, and all was silence. Stephen almost made up his mind to brave the witch’s anger, and go without bidding. Yet there would be danger in that, for Anania, who had been piqued by his parrying of her queries, watched him as a cat watches a mouse.
He was coming home, one evening in early summer, having been on guard all day at the East Gate, when, as he passed the end of Snydyard (now Oriel) Street, a small child of three or four years old toddled up to him, and said—
“There! Take it.”
Stephen, who had a liking for little toddlers, held out his hand with a smile; and grew suddenly grave when there was deposited in it a ball of grey wool.
“Who gave thee this?”
“Old man—down there—said, ‘Give it that man with the brown hat,’” was the answer.
Stephen thanked the child, threw it a sweetmeat, with which his pocket was generally provided, and ran after the old man, whom he overtook at the end of the street.
“What mean you by this?” he asked.
The old man looked up blankly.
“I know not,” said he. “I was to take it to Stephen the Watchdog,—that’s all I know.”