"
Crefton turned to the hearth, where an unusually fierce fire was
banked up under a big black kettle, which sent a thin wreath of
steam from its spout, but seemed otherwise to ignore the action of
the roaring blaze beneath it.
"It's been there more than an hour, an' boil it won't," said Mrs.
Spurfield, adding, by way of complete explanation, "we're
bewitched."
"It's Martha Pillamon as has done it," chimed in the old mother;
"I'll be even with the old toad. I'll put a spell on her."
"It must boil in time," protested Crefton, ignoring the
suggestions of foul influences. "Perhaps the coal is damp."
"It won't boil in time for supper, nor for breakfast to-morrow
morning, not if you was to keep the fire a-going all night for
it," said Mrs. Spurfield. And it didn't. The household subsisted
on fried and baked dishes, and a neighbour obligingly brewed tea
and sent it across in a moderately warm condition.
"I suppose you'll be leaving us, now that things has turned up
uncomfortable," Mrs. Spurfield observed at breakfast; "there are
folks as deserts one as soon as trouble comes."
Crefton hurriedly disclaimed any immediate change of plans; he
observed, however, to himself that the earlier heartiness of
manner had in a large measure deserted the household.
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