Titty's eyes were swimming. She saw the ground of the yard at her feet through a mist. Something queer was happening that she could neither hinder nor help. The stick was more than a bit of wood in her hands. It was coming alive. If only she could drop it, be free of it. But there was Nancy's voice, talking, close to her and yet far away [...] there could be doubt no longer. The ends of the stick were lifting. She fought against them, trying as hard as she could to hold them still. But the fork of the stick was dipping, dipping, Nothing could stop it. Her hands turned in spite of her… They were all talking to her at once. The next moment the stick had twisted out of her hands. It lay on the ground, just a forked hazel twig with the green showing through the bark where Nancy had trimmed it. Titty, the dowser, startled more than she could bear, and shaking with sobs, had bolted up into the wood.