“Well, see here,” returned Mrs. Clarke, somewhat mollified. “Don’t ye look at ’em at all, that’s a good ’ooman. Maybe ’tis no fault o’ yourn, but ’tis very strange, Mrs. Kerley, what do seem to have come to you to-year. You do seem to bring bad luck, though you midn’t do it a-purpose.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” protested Ann, “an’ I can’t believe, Mrs. Clarke, as a body can do bad wi’out knowin’ it.”
“Well, ’tis queer, I d’ ’low,” agreed her neighbour, “but when a body sees sich things for theirsel’s as do happen along o’ you, they can’t but believe their own eyes. Ye mind that there bar-hive what Mr. Bridle got last month?”
“E-es,” returned Ann feebly, “I mind it well. I never see sich a handsome contrivance nor so clever. Mr. Bridle showed it to I.”
“E-es, I d’ ’low he did,” agreed the other, with a certain triumph. “I d’ ’low ye was a-lookin’ at it a long time.”
“I was,” confessed Ann, with a sinking heart.
Mrs. Clarke nodded portentously. “That’s it,” she said. “The bees be all dead, Mrs. Kerley. Bridle, he did say to I yesterday, ‘I couldn’t think,’ says he, ‘whatever took the bees. I had but just moved them out of the wold skip and they did seem to take to the bar-hive so nice,’ he says, ‘an’ now they be all a-dyin’ off so quick as they can. I couldn’t think,’ he says, ‘what could be the reason, but I do know now. I do know it was a great mistake to ha’ brought Ann Kerley up to look at ’em.’”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” cried the last-named poor old woman, wringing her hands, “do he really think I did hurt ’em?”
“He do, indeed,” said Mrs. Clarke firmly. “There, my dear, it do seem a terr’ble thing, but you be turned into a witch seemin’ly, whether it be against your will or whether it bain’t.”
Ann stood motionless for a moment, her hands squeezed tightly together, her face haggard and drawn.