Sally Cramphorn, however, had come on other business and about a widely different sort of potion. She was among those who respected Cherry's darker accomplishments, and her father himself--a man not prone to praise his fellow-creatures--openly confessed to firm belief in Mother Grepe's unusual powers.
The old woman was in her garden when Sally arrived. It had needed sharp scrutiny to observe much promise of wisdom about her. She was brown, wrinkled and shrivelled, yet exhibited abundant vitality and spoke in a voice that seemed musical because one expected the reverse. Her eyes alone challenged a second glance. They were black, and flashed in the twilight. Dame Grepe's visitor, a stranger to shyness, soon explained the nature of the thing desired. With blushes, but complete self-possession in all other respects, she spoke.
"'Tis 'bout the matter of a husband, Cherry; an' you'm so wise, I lay you knaw it wi'out my tellin' you."
"Ess--you be wife-auld in body; but what about the thinking part of 'e, Sally Cramphorn? Anyway I wonder you dare let your mind go gadding arter a male, seeing what fashion o' man your faither is."
"That's the very reason for it I reckon. What gal can be happy in a home like mine?"
"A man quick to think evil--your faither--a vain man--a man as scowls at shadows an' sees gunpowder treason hid behind every hedge--poor fule!"
"So he do then; an' ban't very nice for a grawed woman like me. If I lifts my eye to a chap's face, he thinks I be gwaine to run away from un; an' there ban't a man in Little Silver, from Squire Yeoland to the cowboy at the farm, as he've got a tender word for."
Sally followed the old woman into her cottage, and spoke as she did so.
"It's hard come to think on it, 'cause I'm no more against a husband than any other gal. 'Tis awnly that they'm feared of the sound 'pon theer tongues as gals won't awn up honest they'd sooner have husbands than not. Look at missis--she'll find herself a happy wife bimebye if squire do count for anything."
"A nature, hers, born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards. Fine metal, but easy to crack by fire. She comed to me wance--years agone--comed half in jest, half in earnest; an' I tawld her strange things to her fortune tu--things as'll mean gert changes an' more sorrow than joy when all's acted an' done. Full, fair share of gude an' bad--evil an' balm--an' her very well content to creep under the green grass an' rest her head 'pon the airth come fulness of time."