It was growing dark when she finally reached the high pass in which it
lay, and in place of the wind a cold stillness reigned. The rocky
culvert did not benefit from the failing light. It was a harsh and
cheerless place, all thorn and sloe, with here and there a gnarled,
leafless tree.
The faraway cry of a wolf froze her to the marrow: she was alone, and
could not find what she sought. Why had she come in such haste,
without horse or cloak? Her body ached and the sense of youthful
despair, never far from her, returned with the added force of cold,
helpless exposure.
An owl swooped, and half fearfully she followed the line of its
flight. As it rose again against the near horizon, she saw there at
the meeting of stone and sky a trail of black smoke, barely
distinguishable in the darkening gloom. She followed it downward. And
there, half buried in the hard earth which bounded it on three sides,
she saw her aunt's sometime residence, the `witch's hole' as her
mother had called it. And though she loved her aunt, and had nowhere
else to go, she could not help feeling a moment of doubt.
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