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THE pot simmered as the old woman stirred it with a wooden ladle. Light from the great, open fireplace showed deep wrinkles in her skin as she knelt to sprinkle herbs into the mixture. A parrot squatting on the sand-strewn floor croaked contentedly as it preened its feathers. Smoke filled the dim room.

"Ack, mijn kleintje," said the old woman, turning and speaking to the parrot, "a fine cure it will be for the child. A fine cure!"

"A fine cure!" echoed the parrot thickly, spreading its wings.

"But if the child dies, they will blame me. Already they say that I have magic. When last year I cured her child the wife of Arie Ver Veelen seemed afraid of me. She seemed afraid of me — dost hear, mijn kleintje?"

The parrot waddled away toward a dark comer in unconcern. The old woman went on mumbling to herself.

"And if again I cure the child, they will call me a witch. Only yesterday Johannes Kuyper would not meet me when I walked on the Claasland Road to Nayack. He went across a field so that he would not have to come near me. They are all afraid, mijn kleintje!"

The parrot's eyes glared unblinkingly out of the dark corner. Push-
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