avert her grave and loving eyes from that
wrinkled and careworn countenance.

Suddenly,—in the twinkling of an eye,—the
creature appeared, there, behind Lucy;
fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but
kneeling exactly as Bridget knelt, and clasping
her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget
clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening
into a prayer. Mistress Clarke cried out—
Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the
creature beyond: drawing her breath with a
hissing sound, never moving her terrible
eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a
dart at that phantom, and caught, as I had
done, a mere handful of empty air. We
saw no more of the creature—it vanished as
suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked
slowly on, as if watching some receding form.
Lucy sate still, white, trembling, drooping,—
I think she would have swooned if I had not
been there to uphold her. While I was
attending to her, Bridget passed us, without a
word to any one, and, entering her cottage,
she barred herself in, and left us without.

All our endeavours were now directed to
get Lucy back to the house where she had
tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told
me that not hearing from me (some letter
must have miscarried) she had grown
impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy
to the enterprise of coming to seek her grand-
mother; not telling her, indeed, of the dread
reputation she possessed, or how we
suspected her of having so fearfully blighted
that innocent girl; but, at the same time,
hoping much from the mysterious stirring of
blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in for
the removal of the curse. They had come by a
different route from that which I had taken
to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only
the night before. This was the first interview
between ancestress and descendant.

All through the sultry noon I wandered
along the tangled wood-paths of the old
neglected forest, thinking where to turn for
remedy in a matter so complicated and
mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my
way to the nearest clergyman, and went,
hoping to obtain some counsel from him.
But he proved to be a coarse and common-
minded man, giving no time or attention
to the intricacies of a case, but dashing
out a strong opinion involving immediate
action. For instance, as soon as I named
Bridget Fitzgerald he exclaimed:

"The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist!
I'd have had her ducked long since but for
that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has
had to threaten honest folk about here over and
over again, or they'd have had her up before
the justices for her black doings. And it's the
law of the land that witches should be burnt!
Ay! and of Scripture, too, sir! yet you see
a papist, if he's a rich squire, can overrule
both law and Scripture. I'd carry a faggot
myself to rid the country of her!"

Such an one could give me no help. I
rather drew back what I had already said;
and tried to make the parson forget it, by
treating him to several pots of beer, in the
village inn, to which we had adjourned for
our conference at his suggestion. I left him
as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme,
shaping my way past deserted Starkey
Manor House, and coming upon it by the
back. At that side were the oblong remains
of the old moat, the waters of which lay
placid and motionless under the crimson rays
of the setting sun; with the forest-trees lying
straight along each side, and their deep green
foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished
surface of the moat below,—and the broken
sun-dial at the end nearest the hall,—and the
heron, standing on one leg at the water's
edge, lazily looking down for fish—the lonely
and desolate house scarce needed the broken
windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the
broken shutter softly flapping to and fro in
the twilight breeze to fill up the picture of
desertion and decay. I lingered about the
place until the growing darkness warned me
on. And then I passed along the path, cut
by the orders of the last lady of Starkey
Manor House, that led me to Bridget's
cottage. I suddenly resolved to see her; and,
in spite of closed doors—it might be of
resolved will—she should see me. So I
knocked at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely.
I shook it so vehemently that at length the
old hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell
inwards, leaving me suddenly face to face
with Bridget. I, red, heated, agitated with
my so long baffled efforts—she, stiff as any
stone, standing right facing me, her eyes
dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling,
but her body motionless. In her hands she
held her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol
she sought to oppose my entrance. At sight
of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank
back upon a chair. Some mighty tension had
given way. Still her eyes looked fearfully
into the gloom of the outer air, made more
opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside,
which she had placed before the picture of
the Virgin.

"Is she there?" asked Bridget, hoarsely.

"No! Who? I am alone. You remember
me."

"Yes," replied she, still terror-stricken.
"But she—that creature—has been looking
in upon me through that window all the day
long. I have closed it up with my shawl;
and then I saw her feet below the door, as
long as it was light, and I knew she heard
my very breathing—nay, worse, my very
prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening
choked the words ere they rose to my
lips. Tell me, who is she?—what means that
double girl I saw this morning? One had
a look of my dead Mary; but the other
curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!"
She had taken hold of my arm, as if to
secure herself some human companionship.
She shook all over with the slight, never-