Again the man shook his head. “It don’t belong to no one,” he reiterated.
Peter raised his eyebrows incredulously. “But why not?” he demanded.
“’Tis evil,” said the man in a solemn whisper.
“Evil!” echoed Peter. And the word seemed as out of place in the morning sunshine as a cynic would seem in fairyland.
The man nodded. “’Tis evil, for sure. ’Tis haunted.”
“And by what is it haunted?” demanded Peter, curious.
“A bad woman,” said the man. “Her comes there o’nights, and her moans for that her soul’s to hell.”
Again the word fell like a discord in the harmony of sunshine and singing birds. Peter frowned.
“Then,” he asked, “as the cottage possesses no owner I suppose I can live here if I choose?”
The man scratched his head. “No one can’t live there what bain’t in league with t’devil,” he announced.