We left Cousin Mattie’s early, for it still looked like a storm, though no more so than it had in the morning. We intended to go home by a different path—one leading through cleared land overgrown with scrub , which had the advantage of being farther away from Bowen’s house. We hoped to be home before it began to storm, but we had hardly reached the hill above the village when a fine, driving snow began to fall. It would have been wiser to have turned back even then; but we had already come a mile and we thought we would have ample time to reach home before it became really bad. We were sadly mistaken; by the time we had gone another half-mile we were in the thick of a bewildering, blinding snowstorm. But it was by now just as far back to Cousin Mattie’s as it was to Uncle Alec’s, so we struggled on, growing more frightened at every step. We could hardly face the stinging snow, and we could not see ten feet ahead of us. It had turned bitterly cold and the tempest howled all around us in white desolation under the fast-darkening night. The narrow path we were trying to follow soon became and we stumbled blindly on, holding to each other, and trying to peer through the furious whirl that filled the air. Our had come upon us so suddenly that we could not realize it. Presently Peter, who was leading the van because he was supposed to know the path best, stopped.  
“I can’t see the road any longer,” he shouted. “I don’t know where we are.”
 
We all stopped and together in a group. Fear filled our hearts. It seemed ages ago that we had been and safe and warm at Cousin Mattie’s. Cecily began to cry with cold. Dan, in spite of her protests, dragged off his overcoat and made her put it on.
 
“We can’t stay here,” he said. “We’ll all freeze to death if we do. Come on—we’ve got to keep moving. The snow ain’t so deep yet. Take hold of my hand, Cecily. We must all hold together. Come, now.”
 
“It won’t be nice to be frozen to death, but if we get through alive think what a story we’ll have to tell,” said the Story Girl between her teeth.
 
In my heart I did not believe we would ever get through alive. It was almost pitch dark now, and the snow grew deeper every moment. We were chilled to the heart. I thought how nice it would be to lie down and rest; but I remembered hearing that that was fatal, and I endeavoured to stumble on with the others. It was wonderful how the girls kept up, even Cecily. It occurred to me to be thankful that Sara Ray was not with us.
 
But we were wholly lost now. All around us was a horror of great darkness. Suddenly Felicity fell. We dragged her up, but she declared she could not go on—she was done out.
 
“Have you any idea where we are?” shouted Dan to Peter.
 
“No,” Peter shouted back, “the wind is blowing every which way. I haven’t any idea where home is.”
 
Home! Would we ever see it again? We tried to urge Felicity on, but she only repeated that she must lie down and rest. Cecily, too, was reeling against me. The Story Girl still stood up staunchly and counselled struggling on, but she was with cold and her words were hardly distinguishable. Some wild idea was in my mind that we must dig a hole in the snow and all creep into it. I had read somewhere that people had thus saved their lives in snowstorms. Suddenly Felix gave a shout.
 
“I see a light,” he cried.
 
“Where? Where?” We all looked but could see nothing.
 
“I don’t see it now but I saw it a moment ago,” shouted Felix. “I’m sure I did. Come on—over in this direction.”
 
Inspired with fresh hope we hurried after him. Soon we all saw the light—and never shone a fairer . A few more steps and, coming into the shelter of the woodland on the further side, we realized where we were.
 
“That’s Peg Bowen’s house,” exclaimed Peter, stopping short in dismay.
 
“I don’t care whose house it is,” declared Dan. “We’ve got to go to it.”
 
“I s’pose so,” Peter ruefully. “We can’t freeze to death even if she is a witch.”
 
“For goodness’ sake don’t say anything about witches so close to her house,” Felicity. “I’ll be thankful to get in anywhere.”
 
We reached the house, climbed the flight of steps that led to that mysterious second story door, and Dan rapped. The door opened and Peg Bowen stood before us, in what seemed exactly the same costume she had worn on the day when we had come, bearing gifts, to her in the matter of Paddy.
 
“Behind her was a dim room illumined by the one small candle that had guided us through the storm; but the old Waterloo stove was colouring the gloom with tremulous, rose-red whorls of light, and warm and indeed seemed Peg’s retreat to us snow-covered, frost-chilled, wanderers.
 
“Gracious goodness, where did yez all come from?” exclaimed Peg. “Did they turn yez out?”
 
“We’ve been over to Baywater, and we got lost in the storm coming back,” explained Dan. “We didn’t know where we were till we saw your light. I guess we’ll have to stay here till the storm is over—if you don’t mind.”
 
“And if it won’t inconvenience you,” said Cecily timidly.
 
“Oh, it’s no inconvenience to speak of. Come in. Well, yez HAVE got some snow on yez. Let me get a broom. You boys your feet well and shake your coats. You girls give me your things and I’ll hang them up. Guess yez are most froze. Well, sit up to the stove and git het up.”
 
Peg away to gather up a of chairs, with backs and rungs missing, and in a few minutes we were in a circle around her roaring stove, getting dried and out. In our wildest flights of fancy we had never pictured ourselves as guests at the witch’s hearth-stone. Yet here we were; and the witch herself was actually a jorum of tea for Cecily, who continued to shiver long after the rest of us were roasted to the . Poor Sis drank that scalding , being in too great of Peg to do aught else.
 
“That’ll soon fix your shivers,” said our hostess . “And now I’ll get yez all some tea.”
 
“Oh, please don’t trouble,” said the Story Girl hastily.
 
“‘Tain’t any trouble,” said Peg briskly; then, with one of the sudden changes to fierceness which made her such a terrifying personage, “Do yez think my vittels ain’t clean?”
 
“Oh, no, no,” cried Felicity quickly, before the Story Girl could speak, “none of us would ever think THAT. Sara only meant she didn’t want you to go to any bother on our account.”
 
“It ain’t any bother,” said Peg, mollified. “I’m spry as a cricket this winter, though I have the realagy sometimes. Many a good bite I’ve had in your ma’s kitchen. I owe yez a meal.”
 
No more protests were made. We sat in silence, gazing with timid curiosity about the room, the stained, plastered walls of which were well-nigh covered with a motley assortment of pictures, chromos, and advertisements, pasted on without much regard for order or character.
 
We had heard much of Peg’s pets and now we saw them. Six cats occupied various cosy corners; one of them, the black goblin which had so terrified us in the summer, blinked satirically at us from the centre of Peg’s bed. Another, a dilapidated, striped beastie, with both ears and one eye gone, glared at us from the sofa in the corner. A dog, with only three legs, lay behind the stove; a crow sat on a roost above our heads, in company with a matronly old hen; and on the clock shelf were a stuffed monkey and a grinning . We had heard that a sailor had given Peg the monkey. But where had she got the skull? And whose was it? I could not help puzzling over these gruesome questions.
 
Presently tea was ready and we gathered around the festal board—a board as well as figuratively, for Peg’s table was the work of her own unskilled hands. The less said about the of that meal, and the dishes they were served in, the better. But we ate them—bless you, yes!—as we would have eaten any witch’s banquet set before us. Peg might or might not be a witch—common sense said not; but we knew she was quite capable of turning every one of us out of doors in one of her sudden fierce fits if we offended her; and we had no mind to trust ourselves again to that wild forest where we had fought a losing fight with the forces of night and storm.
 
But it was not an agreeable meal in more ways than one. Peg was not at all careful of anybody’s feelings. She hurt Felix’s cruelly as she passed him his cup of tea.
 
“You’ve gone too much to flesh, boy. So the magic seed didn’t work, hey?”
 
How in the world had Peg found out about that magic seed? Felix looked foolish.
 
“If you’d come to me in the first place I’d soon have told you how to get thin,” said Peg, nodding wisely.
 
“Won’t you tell me now?” asked Felix eagerly, his desire to melt his too solid flesh overcoming his and shame.
 
“No, I don’t like being second fiddle,” answered Peg with a smile. “Sara, you’re too scrawny and pale—not much like your ma. I knew her well. She was counted a beauty, but she made no great things of a match. Your father had some money but he was a tramp like meself. Where is he now?”
 
“In Rome,” said the Story Girl rather shortly.
 
“People thought your ma was crazy when she took him. But she’d a right to please herself. Folks is too ready to call other folks crazy. There’s people who say I’M not in my right mind. Did yez ever”—Peg Felicity with a piercing glance—“hear anything so ridiculous?”
 
“Never,” said Felicity, white to the lips.
 
“I wish everybody was as as I am,” said Peg scornfully. Then she looked poor Felicity over critically. “You’re good-looking but proud. And your won’t wear. It’ll be like your ma’s yet—too much red in it.”
 
“Well, that’s better than being the colour of mud,” muttered Peter, who wasn’t going to hear his lady , even by a witch. All the thanks he got was a furious look from Felicity, but Peg had not heard him and now she turned her attention to Cecily.
 
“You look delicate. I daresay you’ll never live to grow up.”
 
Cecily’s lip trembled and Dan’s face turned .
 
“Shut up,” he said to Peg. “You’ve no business to say such things to people.”
 
I think my dropped. I know Peter’s and Felix’s did. Felicity broke in wildly.
 
“Oh, don’t mind him, Miss Bowen. He’s got SUCH a temper—that’s just the way he talks to us all at home. PLEASE excuse him.”
 
“Bless you, I don’t mind him,” said Peg, from whom the unexpected seemed to be the thing to expect. “I like a lad of spurrit. And so your father run away, did he, Peter? He used to be a beau of mine—he seen me home three times from singing school when we was young. Some folks said he did it for a dare. There’s such a lot of in the world, ain’t there? Do you know where he is now?”
 
“No,” said Peter.
 
“Well, he’s coming home before long,” said Peg mysteriously.
 
“Who told you that?” cried Peter in .
 
“Better not ask,” responded Peg, looking up at the skull.
 
If she meant to make the flesh creep on our bones she succeeded. But now, much to our relief, the meal was over and Peg invited us to draw our chairs up to the stove again.
 
“Make yourselves at home,” she said, producing her pipe from her pocket. “I ain’t one of the kind who thinks their houses too good to live in. Guess I won’t bother washing the dishes. They’ll do yez for breakfast if yez don’t forget your places. I s’pose none of yez smokes.”
 
“No,” said Felicity, rather .
 
“Then yez don’t know what’s good for yez,” retorted Peg, rather grumpily. But a few whiffs of her pipe her and, observing Cecily sigh, she asked her kindly what was the matter.
 
“I’m thinking how worried they’ll be at home about us,” explained Cecily.
 
“Bless you, dearie, don’t be worrying over that. I’ll send them word that yez are all snug and safe here.”
 
“But how can you?” cried amazed Cecily.
 
“Better not ask,” said Peg again, with another glance at the skull.
 
An uncomfortable silence followed, finally broken by Peg, who introduced her pets to us and told how she had come by them. The black cat was her favourite.
 
“That cat knows more than I do, if yez’ll believe it,” she said proudly. “I’ve got a rat too, but he’s a bit shy when strangers is round. Your cat got all right again that time, didn’t he?”
 
“Yes,” said the Story Girl.
 
“Thought he would,” said Peg, nodding . “I seen to that. Now, don’t yez all be staring at the hole in my dress.”
&nbs............