than a careless boy cares how he handles the
toad that he is going to throw over the wall.

When Lois came to her full senses she found
herself lying on a short hard bed in a dark
square room, which she at once knew must be a
part of the city gaol. It was about eight feet
square, it had stone walls on every side, and a
grated opening high above her head, letting in
all the light and air that could enter in about a
square foot of aperture. It was so lonely, so
dark to that poor girl, when she came slowly and
painfully out of her long faint. She did so want
human help in that struggle which always supervenes
after a swoon; when the effort is to clutch
at life, and the effort seems too much for the
will. She did not at first understand where she
was; did not understand how she came to be
there, nor did she care to understand. Her
physical instinct was to lie still, and let the
hurrying pulses have time to calm. So she shut
her eyes once; more. Slowly, slowly the
recollection of the scene in the meeting-house
shaped itself into a kind of picture before her.
She saw, as it were, within her eyelids, that sea
of loathing faces all turned towards her, as
towards something unclean and loathly. And
you must remember, you who in the nineteenth
century read this tale, that witchcraft was a real
terrible sin to her, Lois Barclay, two hundred
years ago. The look on their, faces, stamped on
heart and brain, excited in her a sort of strange
sympathy. Could it, oh God!—could it be true
that Satan had obtained the terrific power over
her and her will, of which she had heard and
read? could she indeed be possessed by a demon
and be indeed a witch, and yet till now have been
unconscious of it? And her excited imagination
recalled with singular vividness all she had ever
heard on the subject—the horrible midnight
sacrament, the very presence and power of Satan;
every angry thought against her neighbour,
against the impertinences of Prudence, the over-
bearing authority of her aunt, the persevering
crazy suit of Manasseh; the indignation—only
that morning, but such ages off in real time—at
Faith's injustice. Oh, could such evil thoughts
have had devilish power given to them by the
father of evil, and, all unconsciously to herself,
have gone forth as active curses into the world!
And so on the ideas went careering wildly
through the poor girl's brain—the girl thrown
inward upon herself. At length the sting of
her imagination forced her to start up impatiently.
What was this? A weight of iron on
her legs—a weight stated afterwards, by the
gaoler of Salem prison, to have been "not more
than eight pounds." It was well for Lois it was
a tangible ill, bringing her back from the wild
illimitable desert in which her imagination was
wandering. She took hold of the iron, and saw
her torn stocking her bruised ankle, and
began to cry pitifully out of strange compassion
with herself. They feared, then, that even in
that cell she would find a way to escape. Why,
the utter ridiculous impossibility of the thing
convinced her of her own innocence and
ignorance of all supernatural power; and the
heavy iron brought her strangely round from the
delusions that seemed to be gathering around her.

No! she never could fly out of that deep
dungeon; there was no escape, natural or super-
natural, for her, unless by man's mercy. And
what was man's mercy in such times of panic?
Lois knew that it was nothing; instinct more
than reason taught her that panic educes
cowardice, and cowardice cruelty. Yet she cried,
cried freely, and for the first time, when she
found herself ironed and chained. It seemed so
cruel, so much as if her fellow creatures had
really learnt to hate and dread her—her, who
had had a few angry thoughts, which God forgive,
but whose thoughts had never gone into words,
far less into actions. Why, now she could love
all the household at home if they would but
let her; yes, even yet, though she felt that it
was the open accusation of Prudence and the
withheld justifications of her aunt and Faith
that had brought her to her present strait.
Would they ever come and see her? would kinder
thoughts of her, she who had shared their daily
bread for months and months, bring them to see
her, and ask her whether it were really she who
had brought on the illness of Prudence, the
derangement of Manasseh's mind?

No one came. Bread and water were pushed
in by some one, who hastily locked and
unlocked the door, and cared not to see if he put
them within his prisoner's reach, or perhaps
thought that physical fact mattered little to a
witch. It was long before Lois could reach
them, and she had something of the natural
hunger of youth left in her still, which prompted
her, lying her length on the floor, to weary herself
with efforts to obtain the bread. After she
had eaten some of it the day began to wane,
and she thought she would lay her down and
try to sleep. But before she did so the gaoler
heard her singing the Evening Hymn—

          Glory to thee, my God, this night,
          For all the blessings of the light.

And a dull thought came into his dull mind that
she was thankful for few blessings if she could
tune up her voice to sing praises after this day
of what, if she were a witch, was shameful
detection in abominable practices, and if not——
Well, his mind stopped short at this point in his
wondering contemplation. Lois knelt down
and said the Lord's Prayer, pausing just a little
before one clause, that she might be sure that in
her heart of hearts she did forgive. Then she
looked at her ankle, and the tears came into her
eyes once again, but not so much because she
was hurt, as because men must have hated her so
bitterly before they could have treated her so.
Then she lay down, and fell asleep.

The next day she was led before Mr. Hathorn
and Mr. Curwin, justices of Salem, to be
accused legally and publicly of witchcraft. Others
were there accused like her. And when the
prisoners were brought in, they were cried out
at by the abhorrent crowd. The two Tappaus,
Prudence, and one or two other girls of the
same age were there, in the character of victims
of the spells of the accused. The prisoners