We looked at Paddy who continued to stare fixedly before him with unwinking eyes. Uncle Roger came out and looked at him also, with what seemed to us positively brutal unconcern.
"I'm afraid it's all up with Pat," he said.
"Uncle Roger," said Cecily imploringly, "Peter says Peg Bowen has bewitched Pat for scratching her. Do you think it can be so?"
"Did Pat scratch Peg?" asked Uncle Roger, with a horror-stricken face.
"Dear me! Dear me! That mystery is solved. Poor Pat!"
Uncle Roger nodded his head, as if resigning himself and Pat to the worst.
"Do you really think Peg Bowen is a witch, Uncle Roger?" demanded the Story Girl incredulously.
"Do I think Peg Bowen is a witch? My dear Sara, what do YOU think of a woman who can turn herself into a black cat whenever she likes? Is she a witch? Or is she not? I leave it to you."
"Can Peg Bowen turn herself into a black cat?" asked Felix, staring.
"It's my belief that that is the least of Peg Bowen's accomplishments," answered Uncle Roger. "It's the easiest thing in the world for a witch to turn herself into any animal you choose to mention. Yes, Pat is bewitched—no doubt of that—not the least in the world."
"What are you telling those children such stuff for?" asked Aunt Olivia, passing on her way to the well.
"It's an irresistible temptation," answered Uncle Roger, strolling over to carry her pail.
"You can see your Uncle Roger believes Peg is a witch," said Peter.
"And you can see Aunt Olivia doesn't," I said, "and I don't either."
"See here," said the Story Girl resolutely, "I don't believe it, but there MAY be something in it. Suppose there is. The question is, what can we do?"
"I'll tell you what I'D do," said Peter. "I'd take a present for Peg, and ask her to make Pat well. I wouldn't let on I thought she'd made him sick. Then she couldn't be offended—and maybe she'd take the spell off."
"I think we'd better all give her something," said Felicity. "I'm willing to do that. But who's going to take the presents to her?"
"We must all go together," said the Story Girl.
"I won't," cried Sara Ray in terror. "I wouldn't go near Peg Bowen's house for the world, no matter who was with me."
"I've thought of a plan," said the Story Girl. "Let's all give her something, as Felicity says. And let us all go up to her place this evening, and if we see her outside we'll just go quietly and set the things down before her with the letter, and say nothing but come respectfully away."
"If she'll let us," said Dan significantly.
"Can Peg read a letter?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. Aunt Olivia says she is a good scholar. She went to school and was a smart girl until she became crazy. We'll write it very plain."
"What if we don't see her?" asked Felicity.
"We'll put the things on her doorstep then and leave them."
"She may be miles away over the country by this time," sighed Cecily, "and never find them until it's too late for Pat. But it's the only thing to do. What can we give her?"
"We mustn't offer her any money," said the Story Girl. "She's very indignant when any one does that. She says she isn't a beggar. But she'll take anything else. I shall give her my string of blue beads. She's fond of finery."
"I'll give her that sponge cake I made this morning," said Felicity. "I guess she doesn't get sponge cake very often."
"I've nothing but the rheumatism ring I got as a premium for selling needles last winter," said Peter. "I'll give her that. Even if she hasn't got rheumatism it's a real handsome ring. It looks like solid gold."
"I'll give her a roll of peppermint candy," said Felix.
"I'll give one of those little jars of cherry preserve I made," said Cecily.
"I won't go near her," quavered Sara Ray, "but I want to do something for Pat, and I'll send that piece of apple leaf lace I knit last week."
I decided to give the redoubtable Peg some apples from my birthday tree, and Dan declared he would give her a plug of tobacco.
"Oh, won't she be insulted?" exclaimed Felix, rather horrified.
"Naw," grinned Dan. "Peg chews tobacco like a man. She'd rather have it than your rubbishy peppermints, I can tell you. I'll run down to old Mrs. Sampson's and get a plug."
"Now, we must write the letter and take it and the presents to her right away, before it gets dark," said the Story Girl.
We adjourned to the granary to indite the important document, which the Story Girl was to compose.
"How shall I begin it?" she asked in perplexity. "It would never do to say, 'Dear Peg,' and 'Dear Miss Bowen' sounds too ridiculous."
"Besides, nobody knows whether she is Miss Bowen or not," said Felicity. "She went to Boston when she grew up, and some say she was married there and her husband deserted her, and that's why she went crazy. If she's married, she won't like being called Miss."
"Well, how am I to address her?" asked the Story Girl in despair.
Peter again came to the rescue with a practical suggestion.
"Begin it, 'Respected Madam,'" he said. "Ma has a letter a school trustee once writ to my Aunt Jane and that's how it begins."
"Respected Madam," wrote the Story Girl. "We want to ask a very great favour of you and we hope you will kindly grant it if you can. Our favourite cat, Paddy, is very sick, and we are afraid he is going to die. Do you think you could cure him? And will you please try? We are all so fond of him, and he is such a good cat, and has no bad habits. Of course, if any of us tramps on his tail he will scratch us, but you know a cat can't bear to have his tail tramped on. It's a very tender part of him, and it's his only way of preventing it, and he doesn't mean any harm. If you can cure Paddy for us we will always be very, very grateful to you. The accompanying small offerings are a testimonial of our respect and gratitude, and we entreat you to honour us by accepting them.
"Very respectfully yours,
SARA STANLEY."
"I tell you that last sentence has a fine sound," said Peter admiringly.
"I didn't make that up," admitted the Story Girl honestly. "I read it somewhere and remembered it."
"I think it's TOO fine," criticized Felicity. "Peg Bowen won't know the meaning of such big words."
But it was decided to leave them in and we all signed the letter.
Then we got our "testimonials," and started on our reluctant journey to the domains of the witch. Sara Ray would not go, of course, but she volunteered to stay with Pat while we were away. We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of our errand, or its nature. Grown-ups had such peculiar views. They might forbid our going at all—and they would certainly laugh at us.
Peg Bowen's house was nearly a mile away, even by the short cut past the swamp and up the wooded hill. We went down through the brook field and over the little plank bridge in the hollow, half lost in its surrounding sea of farewell summers. When we reached the green gloom of the woods beyond we began to feel frightened, but nobody would admit it. We walked very closely together, and we did not talk. When you are near the retreat of witches and folk of that ilk the less you say the better, for their feelings are so notoriously touchy. Of course, Peg wasn't a witch, but it was best to be on the safe side.
Finally we came to the lane which led directly to her abode. We were all very pale now, and our hearts were beating. The red September sun hung low between the tall spruces to the west. It did not look to me just right for a sun. In fact, everything looked uncanny. I wished our errand were well over.
A sudden bend in the lane brought us out to the little clearing where Peg's house was before we were half ready to see it. In spite of my fear I looked at it with some curiosity. It was a small, shaky building with a sagging roof, set amid a perfect jungle of weeds. To our eyes, the odd thing about it was that there was no entrance on the ground floor, as there should be in any respectable house. The only door was in the upper story, and was reached by a flight of rickety steps. There was no sign of life about the place except—sight of ill omen—a large black cat, sitting on the topmost step. We thought of Uncle Roger's gruesome hints. Could that black cat be Peg? Nonsense! But still—it didn't look like an ordinary cat. It was so large—and had such green, malicious eyes! Plainly, there was something out of the common about the beastie!