So then she cried, and he fell to comforting her; and afterwards she set the width of the roadway between them as they went through Garsykes village.
Prying eyes looked out on them from Widow Mathison’s inn, and Long Murgatroyd fetched a great laugh as he stood looking out of the window.
“There’s another o’ Nita’s goes by. To-morrow he’ll be where most of us have been in our time.”
Murgatroyd spoke truth. On the next day Will o’ Wisp was busy in the swampy hollow where Nita’s willows grew. The Garsykes Men, when they got late abroad, did not pause for banter as they passed. They let the newcomer hang himself in Nita’s silken toils, and so much for him.
So it went for many days, till Will o’ Wisp began to lose his content with life as he found it. There were times when he came into the inn and sat silent on the settle, till at last the widow rallied him.
“You’re getting heavy as Murgatroyd. What’s amiss with your easy-go-lucky handling of things as they come?”
“How should I know? Draw me a quart of ale, and maybe that will cure me.”
“Maybe it will—and likely it willun’t. But Nita’s good for my trade, and always was.”
“I said naught about Nita.”
“No. But you were thinking of her. Will o’ Wisp, my lad, I’ve a liking for you, and I’m old enough to be your mother. Quit Nita Langrish, before she binds her spell too fast.”