and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne,
and obtain, firstly, the legal proofs of
Lucy's descent from the Fitzgeralds of
Kildoon, and, secondly, he would try to hear all
that he could respecting the working of the
curse, and whether any and what means had
been taken to exorcise that terrible appearance.
For he told me of instances where, by
prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor
had been driven forth with howling and
many cries from the body which it had come
to inhabit; he spoke of those strange New
England cases which had happened not so
long before; of Mr. Defoe who had written a
book, wherein he had named many modes of
subduing apparitions, and sending them back
whence they came; and, lastly, he spoke low
of dreadful ways of compelling witches to
undo their witchcraft. But I could not
endure to hear of those tortures and burnings.
I said that Bridget was rather a wild and
savage woman than a malignant witch; and,
above all, that Lucy was of her kith and
kin; and that in putting her to the trial, by
water or by fire, we should be torturing—it
might be to the death—the ancestress of her
we sought to redeem.

My uncle thought awhile, and then said,
that in this last matter I was right—at any
rate, it should not be tried, with his consent,
till all other modes of remedy had failed;
and assented to my proposal that I should go
myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.

In accordance with this, I went down
once more to the wayside inn near
Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived
there; and, while I supped, I inquired of the
landlord more particulars as to Bridget's
ways. Solitary and savage had been her life
for many years. Wild and despotic were her
words and manner to those few people who
came across her path. The country-folk did
her imperious bidding, because they feared
to disobey. If they pleased her, they
prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or
traversed her behests, misfortunes, small or
great, fell on them and theirs. It was not
detestation so much as an indefinable terror
that she excited.

In the morning I went to see her. She
was standing on the green outside her cottage,
and received me with the sullen grandeur of
a throneless queen. I read in her face that
she recognised me, and that I was not
unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had
opened my errand.

"I have news of your daughter," said I,
resolved to speak straight to all that I knew
she felt of love, and not to spare her. "She
is dead!"

The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her
hand sought the support of the door-post.

"I knew that she was dead," said she, deep
and low, and then was silent for an instant.
"My tears that should have flowed for her
were burnt up long years ago. Young man,
tell me about her."

"Not yet," said I, having a strange power
given me of confronting one, whom,
nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.

"You had once a little dog," I continued.
Tho words called out in her more show of
emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's
death. She broke in upon my speech:

"I had! It was hers—the last thing I
had of hers—and it was shot for wantonness!
It died in my arms. The man who
killed that dog rues it to this day. For that
dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved stands
accursed."

Her eyes distended as if she were in a
trance and saw the working of her curse.
Again I spoke:

"O, woman!" I said, "that best beloved,
standing accursed before men, is your dead
daughter's child."

The life, the energy, the passion came back
to the eyes with which she pierced through
me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without
another question or word, she threw herself
on the ground with fearful vehemence, and
clutched at the innocent daisies with
convulsed hands.

"Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have
I cursed thee—and art thou accursed?"

So she moaned as she lay prostrate in her
great agony. I stood aghast at my own
work. She did not hear my broken
sentences; she asked no more, but the dumb
confirmation my sad looks had given of that
one fact, that her curse rested on her own
daughter's child. The fear grew on me lest
she should die in her strife of body and soul;
and then would not Lucy remain under the
spell as long as she lived?

Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming
through the woodland path that led to
Bridget's cottage; Mistress Clarke was with
her: I felt at my heart that it was her, by the
balmy peace that the look of her sent over
me, as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise
shining out of her soft quiet eyes. That was
as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell
on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on the
earth, they became full of tender pity; and
she came forward to try and lift her up.
Seating herself on the turf, she took Bridget's
head into her lap; and, with gentle touches,
she arranged the dishevelled grey hair streaming
thick and wild from beneath her mutch.

"God help her," murmured Lucy. "How
she suffers!"

At her desire we sought for water; but
when we returned Bridget had recovered her
wandering senses, and was kneeling with
clasped hands before Lucy, gazing at that
sweet sad face as though her troubled nature
drank in health and peace from every
moment's contemplation. A faint tinge on
Lucy's pale cheeks showed me that she was
aware of our return; otherwise it appeared
as if she was conscious of her influence for
good over the passionate and troubled woman
kneeling before her, and would not willingly