‘What are you doing here, my pretty maids?’ she asked.
‘Waiting for our witch,’ answered the children, wondering who this strange-looking, oddly-dressed old woman could be. ‘We are going to play “Witch in the Well.”’
‘Are you?’ said the queer old body. ‘I used to play that nice game when I was young like you, and should love to play it once again before I die. The little maid who was to have been your witch tumbled down on the cobble-stones in the market-place and hurt herself as she was coming hither,’ she added, as they stared at her in amazement, ‘and won’t be able to play with you to-day. Will you let me be your witch instead of your little friend?’
‘If you like, ma’am,’ answered one of the children, after a hasty glance at her companions for consent.
‘Thank you,’ cried the old woman. ‘It will be the most exciting game you ever played in all your life;’ and, lifting her petticoats as if to display her high-heeled shoes and red stockings, she hobbled across the road to a well under a Gothic arch.
When the old crone had taken her seat inside the ancient well—and which was called the Witch’s Well—Betty, the child who was to play the Mother in the game, took the other six little maids to a tumble-down cottage opposite the well, and the game began.
The Little Mother told her children—who were called after the six working days of the week—that she was going down to Padstow Town to sell her eggs, and that they must not leave the cottage, as the Witch o’ the Well was about.
‘Mind the old witch doesn’t come and carry you away,’ the wee maids said one to another when the Little Mother had gone.
As they were saying this, the old woman in the chintz petticoat and steeple-hat came to the door, and looked over the hatch.
‘May I come in and light my pipe?’ she asked.