“I be main glad to see but a little maid before me—I, who have to live among the shadows, and to hide from the light. When I heard your footfall on the dead leaves I had to shrink away, for how should I know if it might not be the persecutors? but it’s you that seem to be feared, my dear, it’s you that seem to be feared.”
Faith was reassured, although still frightened. “Arn’t you Mother Midnight?” she asked.
“Well, by some called Mother Midnight, it be true. But only poor old Granny Gather-stick all the time.”
Her nose and chin almost met, and her face was a network of tiny wrinkles. Her mouth was like the hole to a wren’s nest, except when it was closed, and then it shut down into a straight, hard line. Her eyes were set deep under a furrowed brow, and her grey elf-locks blew about her.
Not a very pleasant appearance you will say; perhaps not, but then her voice was another matter.
It sounded to me as though, cracked and rude,
Years had but softened, nor made it shrill,
As a time-worn flute makes the music crude,
Yet the spirit of music haunt it still.
When Faith listened to her talking, her fear disappeared. And Granny Gather-stick liked to talk.