“Ay, and a witch inside,” said George.
“Why, it’s old—no, impossible!”
“Yes, it is, though—it’s old Moggy’s cottage.”
“Hurrah!” cried Fred.
Old Moggy’s dog came out with a burst of indignation that threatened annihilation to the whole party; but, on discovering who they were, it crept humbly back into the cottage.
“Does she never go to bed?” whispered George, as they approached and found the old woman moping over her fire, and swaying her body to and fro, with the thin dirty gown clinging close to her figure, and the spotlessly clean plaid drawn tightly round her shoulders.
“Good-evening, old woman,” said Mr Sudberry, advancing with a conciliatory air.
“It’s mornin’,” retorted the old woman with a scowl.
“Alas! you are right; here have we been lost on the hills, and wandering all night; and glad am I to find your fire burning, for my poor daughter is very cold and much exhausted. May we sit down beside you?”
No reply, save a furtive scowl.