Crefton rose presently and made his way towards the
farmhouse. Somehow a good deal of the peace seemed to have
slipped out of the atmosphere.
The cheery bustle of tea-time in the old farm kitchen,
which Crefton had found so agreeable on previous afternoons,
seemed to have soured today into a certain uneasy
melancholy. There was a dull, dragging silence around the
board, and the tea itself, when Crefton came to taste it,
was a flat, lukewarm concoction that would have driven the
spirit of revelry out of a carnival.
``It's no use complaining of the tea,'' said Mrs.
Spurfield hastily, as her guest stared with an air of polite
inquiry at his cup. ``The kettle won't boil, that's the
truth of it.''
Crefton turned to the hearth, where an unusually fierce
fire was banked up under a big black kettle, which sent a
thin wreath of steam from its spout, but seemed otherwise to
ignore the action of the roaring blaze beneath it.
``It's been there more than an hour, an' boil it won't,''
said Mrs. Spurfield, adding, by way of complete
explanation, ``we're bewitched.''
``It's Martha Pillamon as has done it,'' chimed in the old
mother; ``I'll be even with the old toad, I'll put a spell
on her.
Pages:
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176