a ball; or in scouring the knives and forks. One afternoon while all
the men save The Lifter were absent, the group was seated round a
small open fire. Hanging from the crane was a pot of fruit which the
hag was boiling.

'Here Poll, ball your yarn,' the old woman said. 'You will hold the
skein for her,' pointing to Roland. 'You may read a chapter from
_Dick Turpin_,' turning to The Lifter. 'We will not want you,
Nancy. Take a turn up stream and try to get a few fish for supper.
There, make haste now; don't stand there, you lazy jade.' Nancy, for
some reason or another, had fastened her eyes upon our hero, and
there was a pleading, frightened look in them.

Roland vaguely understood that she was warning him, but against what
particular form of danger he could not define. Resolved to reassure
her, he nodded his head in a meaning way, and said:

'Off you go, Nancy, and get the fish. We'll _take care_ of ourselves
till you come back.' He laid emphasis upon the 'take care,' and
somewhat at ease, Nancy departed.

As I have said, the old woman was standing at the pot, and silent
Poll had so arranged the seats that while Roland held the skein upon
his hands his back was towards her mother. The Lifter sat side-wise,
and began to read _Dick Turpin_. For many minutes the reading
and the stirring went on; when suddenly Roland noticed that the dull
scraping of the 'slice' against the bottom of the pot had ceased.
Turning his head he met the eyes of the old woman; and observed that
they were aflame with a wild sort of light.