will save one human being from pain 'twill be a good thing. Last night
Mari Lewis came to ask me for something for her boy; I gave it to her,
but she never came to tell me whether it had done him any good," and
she smiled as she led the way back to the cottage carrying her bunches
of herbs.

"Was it Dan?" asked Will.

"Yes."

"Then he is well, for I saw him ploughing this evening."

"That's better than thanks," said the old woman, entering the dark
cottage, where Morva was stirring a crock which hung on a chain from
the open chimney, the furze and bracken flaming and crackling beneath
it and lighting up her beautiful face. Once in the cottage, Sara sat
down on the old oak settle and waited for her supper, her herbs lying
in a green heap on the floor beside her. The square of scarlet
flannel, which she always wore pinned on her shoulders, made a bit of
bright colour in the gloom, her wrinkled hands were clasped on her lap,
and a far-away look came into her wonderful dark eyes.

Morva looked up from her work.

"Are you seeing anything, mother?"

"No, no, child, nothing. Make haste with the supper," said Sara.

And when Morva had divided the porridge in the three shining black
bowls, they drew round the bare oak table, on which the red of the