That afternoon she took her distaff and sat in the doorway and span. The cottage stood some distance from Hawthorn Forest road, but there was a narrow greened-over path that wound between. The robin sang lustily; daffodils, edging the walk to the gate, were opening their golden cups. Old Heron had gone a mile to engage Hugh the thatcher to come to-morrow to mend the roof. Joan span and span and thought of the castle and the masque.
An hour passed. The gate-latch clicked and she looked up. An old woman, much bent and helping herself with a knobby stick, was coming toward her between the rows of daffodils. When she reached the doorstone Joan saw how wrinkled and drear were her face and form. “Good-day,” she said in a quavering voice.
“Good-day,” answered Joan.
“Good-day,” said the old woman again. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you, my pretty maid! I mind you running about in the woods, playing as it were with your shadow, with your hair braided down! Now you wear it under a cap as is proper. I’m Mother Spuraway, who lives beyond the mill-race.”
“I remember now,” said Joan. “I had forgotten. Will you sit down?”
She brought a stool and set it for her visitor. The other lowered herself stiffly. “Oh, my old bones! I’ll sit for a minute, sweetheart, but what I wanted to ask you—” She took Joan by the apron and held her with shaking fingers. “I wanted to ask you if you wouldn’t be Christian enough to spare me a measure of meal? I’ll swear by the church door and the book of prayer that I haven’t had bite nor sup since this time yesterday!” She fell to whimpering.
Joan stood, considering her with grey eyes. “Yes, I’ll give you some meal. But what! They used to say that you were well-to-do.”
“Aye, aye!” said Mother Spuraway. “They said sooth. I didn’t lack baked nor brewed, no, nor silver sixpences!—for, look you, I knew all the good herbs. But alack, alack! times are changed with me.... I’m hungry, I’m hungry, and my gown’s ragged that once was good and fine, and my shoes are not fit to go to church in. Woe’s me—woe’s me—woe’s me!”
Joan went indoors and returned with a piece of bread and a cup of milk. Mother Spuraway seized them and ate and drank with feeble avidity. “Good maid—a good maid!”
“Why do they come to you no more?” asked Joan.