Maren put a cup of coffee on the kitchen table, then sat down herself on the steps leading to the attic with a cracked cup between her fingers. "Just you drink it up," said she, as he hesitated—"there's no-one here that'll harm you and yours."
"But you've been home and made mischief," he mumbled, stretching out his hand for the cup; he seemed equally afraid of drinking or leaving the coffee.
"We've been at the farm we two, 'tis true enough. The bad storm drove us in, 'twas sore against our will." Maren spoke placidly and with forbearance. "And as to your wife, belike it made her ill, and couldn't bear to hear what a man she's got. A kind and good woman she is—miles too good for you. She gave us nought but the best, while you're just longing to burn us. Ay, ay, 'twould be plenty warm enough then! For here 'tis cold, and there's no-one to bring a load of peat to the house."
"Maybe you'd like me to bring you a load?" snapped the farmer, closing his mouth like a trap.
"The child's yours for all that; she's cold and hungry, work as I may."
"Well, she was paid for once and for all."
"Ay, 'twas easy enough for you! Let your own offspring want; 'tis the only child, we'll hope, the Lord'll trust you with."
The farmer started, as if awakened to his senses. "Cast off your spell from my wife!" he shouted, striking the table with his hands.
"I've nought against your wife. But just you see, if the Lord'll put a child in your care. 'Tis not likely to me."
"You leave the Lord alone—and cast off the spell," he whispered hoarsely, making for the old woman, "or I'll throttle you, old witch that you are." He was gray in the face, and his thin, crooked fingers clutched the air.