I was occupied with my writing and completely failed to notice Mrs. Hurchur approaching until she was practically on top of me – which typically wouldn’t have been the case, but she was clever enough (or more likely lucky enough!) to have approached from down wind.

She seemed frantic. Her words came out in jumbles and her fingers kept twisting and knotting about one another as if they were worms writhing in vinegar. “Doncha go meddlin’,” she kept whispering, over and over. I’ve seen her in this state before and I knew that I wouldn’t get anything out of her until she calmed down. Mr. Purvis had no tolerance for it, he would have yelled at her and marched off, but I hoped to be a more patient man than him, so I gently guided her back into the old house and closed her up in the second floor closet for an hour or three to let her clear her head.

But when I came back to let her out, she had already gone (or perhaps was just hiding very well amongst the bric-a-brac).

Mrs. Duvenmeyer served biscuits that afternoon – nice and crumbly. I shall have to remember to thank her for that kindness.