How often she consulted them, or when she began or ceased to do so, I do not know, but when I showed her the vans by the willows and the smoke rising from the fire, last fall, she smiled and said it was like old times to her—but she added, quaintly, that palms did not itch when the veins showed blue.
"Nonsense," I said, "we are both of us young, Letitia. Let us find the crone and hear her croak. I am not afraid of a little sorcery."
Paying no heed to her protestations I turned Pegasus—I have always a Pegasus, whatever my horse's other name—through the meadow-gate. A ragged, brown-faced boy ran out to us and held the bridle while I alighted, and then I turned and offered Letitia a helping hand. She shook her head.
"No, I'll wait here."
"Come," I said, "have you no faith, Letitia?"
"Not any more," she replied. "This is foolishness, Bertram. Will you never grow up?"
"It's only my second-childhood," I explained. "Come, we'll see the vans."
"Some one will see us," she protested.
"There is not a soul on the road," I said.
Shamefacedly she took my hand, glancing uneasily at the highway we had left behind us, and her face flushed as we approached the fire. An ugly old woman with a dirty kerchief about her head, was stirring broth for the evening meal.