Joan took it. “Thank you. I’ll plant it now.”
“You’ve got company,” said Mother Spuraway. “I’ll not come in. But I wanted to do somewhat for you—”
She turned and hobbled off, her wavering old figure wavering away upon the twisting path.
Joan went back to the doorstone with the rue in her hand.
“Wasn’t that Mother Spuraway?” asked Alison. “I wouldn’t be seen talking to her. She’s a witch.”
“She’s no such thing,” said Joan. “She’s only a wretched, poor old woman. Now, what did you mean about Sunday and church?”
But her father came round the corner of the cottage, bringing with him Hugh the thatcher to have a look at the torn roof. Alison rose; the sun was getting low and she must be going. She went, and Joan, at that time, did not find out what she had meant.