hen the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in
June, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would
often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her
for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf
would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached.

I was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that
she was speaking.

"We allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and varra warm
they were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a
gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the
stars shining of a frosty neet."

"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" I asked.

"Aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the ash; we could
roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and
made our supper o' taties and buttermilk."

So her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not wishing to
interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing
geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was
I in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had
stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I
was doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly
heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "What is thou
doing that for?" and turning round, I was startled to see on her usually
placid face the look of a hunted animal.

Touched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to understand
why it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. For
a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice,
replied: "I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes."

"Why, what does it matter?" I asked, and, in the hope that I might help
her to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious
fancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs.

"It's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter truth, and
I've proved it misen, to my cost."

Seeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the subject,
but she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost
in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen in
them before. Then she turned to me and asked: "Has thou iver heerd tell
o' ash-riddling?"

"Of course I have," I replied. "Ever