CHAPTER XI.
THE STING OF A SCORPION "Oh, dear, I wish it wasn't so muddy." Dot, emerging from old Squinny's cottage, stood a moment on the edge of the large puddle that was old Squinny's garden and gazed over the ploughed fields beyond towards the sinking sun.

It was the last day in January, and the winter dusk was already creeping up in a curtain of damp mist that veiled everything it touched.

She knew it would be dark long before she got home, and the prospect of sliding about in the muddy lanes did not attract her.
"You were an idiot not to bring a lantern," she told herself severely, as she skirted the edge of the puddle.

"You might have known--but you never think!" Here she reached the garden-gate and lifted it scientifically off its hinges and then back again when she had passed through.

Old Squinny's gate had not opened in the ordinary way within the memory of man.