She shook her head. "I never knew her,"
said she. "Lucy was about three years old
when I was engaged to take charge of her.
Her mother was dead."

"But you know her name?—you can tell
if it was Mary Fitzgerald?"

She looked astonished. "That was her
name. But, sir, how came you to be so well
acquainted with it ? It was a mystery to the
whole household at Skipford Court. She
was some beautiful young woman whom he
lured away from her protectors while he was
abroad. I have heard said he practised some
terrible deceit upon her, and when she came
to know it she was neither to have nor to
hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and
threw herself into a rapid stream and was
drowned. It stung him deep with remorse,
but I used to think the remembrance of the
mother's cruel death made him love the child
yet dearer."

I told her, as briefly as might be, of my
researches after the descendant and heir of
the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—
something of my old lawyer spirit returning
into me for the moment—that I had no doubt
but that we should prove Lucy to be of right
possessed of large estates in Ireland.

No flush came over her grey face; no light
into her eyes. "And what is all the wealth
in the whole world to that poor girl?" she
said. "It will not free her from the ghastly
bewitchment which persecutes her. As for
money, what a pitiful thing it is; it cannot
touch her."

"No more can the Evil Creature harm
her," I said. "Her holy nature dwells apart,
and cannot be defiled or stained by all the
devilish arts in the whole world."

"True! but it is a cruel fate to know that
all shrink from her, sooner or later, as from
one possessed, accursed."

"How came it to pass?" I asked.

"Nay, I know not. Old rumours there
are, that were bruited through the household
at Skipford."

"Tell me," I demanded.

"They came from servants, who would
fain account for everything. They say that,
many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog
belonging to an old witch at Coldholme;
that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious
curse, the creature, whatever it might
be, that he should love best; and that it
struck so deeply into his heart that for years
he kept himself aloof from any temptation
to love aught. But who could help loving
Lucy?"

"You never heard the witch's name?"
I gasped.

"Yes—they called her Bridget; they said
he would never go near the spot again for
terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!"

"Listen," said I, taking hold of her arm,
the better to arrest her full attention; "if
what I suspect holds true, that man stole
Bridget's only child—the very Mary Fitzgerald
who was Lucy's mother; if so, Bridget
cursed him in ignorance of the deeper
wrong he had done her. To this hour she
yearns after her lost child, and questions
the saints whether she be living or not. The
roots of that curse lie deeper than she knows:
she unwittingly banned him for a deeper
guilt than that of killing a dumb beast. The
sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon
the children."

"But," said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, "she
would never let evil rest on her own grandchild.
Surely, sir, if what you say be true,
there are hopes for Lucy. Let us go—go at
once, and tell this fearful woman all that you
suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell
she has put upon her innocent grandchild."

It seemed to me, indeed, that something
like this was the best course we could pursue.
But first it was necessary to ascertain more
than what mere rumour or careless hear-say
could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle
—he could advise me wisely—he ought to
know all. I resolved to go to him without
delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress
Clarke of all the visionary plans that flitted
through my mind. I simply declared my
intention of proceeding straight to London on
Lucy's affairs. I bade her believe that my
interest on the young lady's behalf was
greater than ever, and that my whole time
should be given up to her cause. I saw that
Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my
mind was too full of thoughts for my words to
flow freely. She sighed and shook her head,
and said, "Well, it was all right!" in such a
tone that it was an implied reproach. But I
was firm and constant in my heart, and I took
confidence from that.

I rode to London. I rode long days drawn
out into the lovely summer nights; I could
not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle
all, though in the stir of the great city the
horror had faded away, and I could hardly
imagine that he would believe the tale I told
him of the fearful double of Lucy which I
had seen on the lonely moor-side. But my
uncle had lived many years, and learnt many
things; and in the deep secrets of family
history that had been confided to him he had
heard of cases of innocent people bewitched
and taken possession of by evil spirits yet
more fearful than Lucy's. For, as he said, to
judge from all I told him, that resemblance
had no power over her—she was too pure
and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting
presence. It had, in all probability, so my
uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked
thoughts and to tempt to wicked actions;
but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed
on undefiled by evil thought or deed. It
could not touch her soul: but true, it set
her apart from all sweet love or common
human intercourse. My uncle threw himself
with an energy more like six and twenty than
sixty into the consideration of the whole case.
He undertook the proving Lucy's descent