What the Old Lady did with herself and how she put in her time was a puzzle the Spencervale people could not solve . The children believed she amused herself counting the gold in the big black box under her bed . Spencervale children held the Old Lady in mortal terror ; some of them -- the `` Spencer Road '' fry -- believed she was a witch ; all of them would run if , when wandering about the woods in search of berries or spruce gum , they saw at a distance the spare , upright form of the Old Lady , gathering sticks for her fire . Mary Moore was the only one who was quite sure she was not a witch . `` Witches are always ugly , '' she said decisively , `` and Old Lady Lloyd is n't ugly . She 's real pretty -- she 's got such a soft white hair and big black eyes and a little white face . Those Road children do n't know what they 're talking of . Mother says they 're a very ignorant crowd . '' `` Well , she does n't ever go to church , and she mutters and talks to herself all the time she 's picking up sticks , '' maintained Jimmy Kimball stoutly . The Old Lady talked to herself because she was really very fond of company and conversation . To be sure , when you have talked to nobody but yourself for nearly twenty years , it is apt to grow somewhat monotonous ; and there were times when the Old Lady would have sacrificed everything but her pride for a little human companionship . At such times she felt very bitter and resentful toward Fate for having taken everything from her . She had nothing to love , and that is about as unwholesome a condition as is possible to anyone . It was always hardest in the spring . Once upon a time the Old Lady -- when she had not been the Old Lady , but pretty , wilful , high-spirited Margaret Lloyd -- had loved springs ; now she hated them because they hurt her ; and this particular spring of this particular May chapter hurt her more than any that had gone before . The Old Lady felt as if she could NOT endure the ache of it . Everything hurt her -- the new green tips on the firs , the fairy mists down in the little beech hollow below the house , the fresh smell of the red earth Crooked Jack spaded up in her garden . The Old Lady lay awake all one moonlit night and cried for very heartache . She even forgot her body hunger in her soul hunger ; and the Old Lady had been hungry , more or less , all that week . She was living on store biscuits and water , so that she might be able to pay Crooked Jack for digging her garden .
When the pale , lovely dawn-colour came stealing up the sky behind the spruces , the Old Lady buried her face XXXXX her pillow and refused to look at it .
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