We had seen each other very rarely of late, and then generally with the Whytes, so I don’t think it struck Anna as at all strange that I walked on beside her in grim silence, scarcely even condescending to notice her few amiable commonplace remarks. Poor child! her head was always full of home cares; I think it must have been a treat to her even to walk along quietly without a lot of “little ones” tugging at her skirt.
“It is a nice day,” she observed for about the fifth time. “The boys have gone to Belton Woods. I hope aunt won’t let Prissy go with them, however; she is sure to catch cold if they stay late. November evenings are so chilly.”
“I should think you’d be rather glad for some of them to catch cold sometimes,” I said. “It must be a blessing to have a few quiet in bed.”
Anna stared at me, then a smile broke over her rather dull face.
“How funny you are, Connie!” she said. “No, I think they’re quite as noisy in bed as anywhere else, except when they’re really very ill, and that, of course, is no laughing matter. But they’re all well just now, and really to-day is like September: it is a nice day.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s one of our nicest autumn days. If—if only some things were different,” I added to myself.
We were by this time in the lane, which, after crossing the fields, was the nearest way to the Yew Trees. This lane ran into the high road too, so any one coming to the Whytes’ had to go some way along it. Just as I spoke—we had climbed over a stile into the lane—I saw coming towards us, as if going to the Yew Trees from the road, a very curious figure. It was that of a small old woman. She seemed a little lame, yet she walked pretty fast. But I did not like her look at all; indeed, as she came nearer and I saw that her face was almost hidden by a lace veil of a very heavy pattern, and that she had a wig of very black and shiny curls, falling on each side of her cheeks, I felt almost frightened, I scarcely knew why. She had a long cloak of rusty black silk, and a queer brown fur “pelerine”—I think that is the old-fashioned name for such things. And she seemed to have sprung up so suddenly, that I almost felt as if I was fancying her. For the first time that afternoon I turned to Anna with a sort of friendliness.
“Anna,” I said, “do look. Who can that queer woman be?”
“A tramp,” Anna began to say. We were used to tramps of all kinds, but still this description hardly suited the person now closely approaching us. A thought crossed my mind—could it be one of the Whyte boys dressed up to frighten us? But no; they never played such tricks.