As evening came on the sky grew darker, while my mind became full of the visit I was to make to old Deborah Teague. I made only a light meal, and as soon as I was able to do so, went alone to her cottage.
It was a little tumble-down shanty, standing beneath a hillock, and was as lonely a place as it was possible to be. Eighteen years of age though I was, my heart beat faster as I thought of Deborah living alone in a house that had the reputation of being haunted. What was I doing? In spite of what the vicar had said, was it not wrong for me to hold converse with the strange old woman?
But I would not go back; and so making straight for the little window, through which I could see a candle dimly burning, I was soon face to face with her.
"Maaster Roger was 'fraid," said the old woman, half questioningly, half wheedlingly.
"No," I said, "I don't think so."
"The Trewinions was never 'fraid ov th' livin', my deer," said the old woman, "but the dead, ah, the dead."
"They can do me no harm, so why should I be afraid?"
"Ah, why! ah! ha!" she giggled. "But Maaster Roger es weth wawn that can do lots ov things."
"Oh, yes, lots, Deborah," I said; "you can cure more diseases than any doctor in Truro."
"And more than that, Maaster Roger; but don't you be 'fraid, my deer, I wa'ant hurt you."