g kindnesses to everybody; and he had a way of
doing them that made you feel as if you was doing the favour, not him.
Well, well, let Old Lady Lloyd keep herself and her money to herself
if she wants to. If she doesn't want our company, she doesn't have to
suffer it, that's all. Reckon she isn't none too happy for all her money
and pride."

No, the Old Lady was none too happy, that was unfortunately true. It
is not easy to be happy when your life is eaten up with loneliness and
emptiness on the spiritual side, and when, on the material side, all you
have between you and starvation is the little money your hens bring you
in.

The Old Lady lived "away back at the old Lloyd place," as it was always
called. It was a quaint, low-eaved house, with big chimneys and square
windows and with spruces growing thickly all around it. The Old Lady
lived there all alone and there were weeks at a time when she never saw
a human being except Crooked Jack. What the Old Lady did with herself
and how she put in her time was a puzzle the Spencervale people could
not solve. The children believed she amused herself counting the gold in
the big black box under her bed. Spencervale children held the Old Lady
in mortal terror; some of them--the "Spencer Road" fry--believed she
was a witch; all of them would run if, when wandering about the woods
in search of berries or spruce gum, they saw at a distance the spare,
upright form of the Old Lady, gathering sticks for her fire. Mary Moore
was the only one who was quite sure she was not a witch.

"Witches are always ugly," she said decisively, "and Old Lady Lloyd
isn't ugly. She's real pretty--she's got such a soft white hair and big
black eyes and a little white face. Those Road children don't know what
they're talking of. Mother says they're a very ignorant crowd."

"Well, she doesn't ever go to church, and she mutters and talks to
herself all the time she's picking up sticks," maintained Jimmy Kimball
stoutly.

The Old Lady talked to herself because she was really very fond of
company and conversation. To be sure, when you have talked to nobody but
yourself for nearly twenty years, it is apt to grow somewhat monotonous;
and there were times when the Old Lady would have sacrificed everything
but her pride for a little human companionship. At such times she felt
very bitter and resentful toward Fate for having taken everything
from her. She had nothing to love, and that is about as unwholesome a