by no means ill with her supernatural and malign pretensions.

Mrs. Mack's ear was strained to catch the sound of Toole's approach, and
a pause ensued, during which she got up and poured out a glass of port
for the lady, and she presented it to her deferentially. She took it
with a nod, and sipped it, thinking, as it seemed, uneasily. There was
plainly something more than usual upon her mind. Mrs. Mack
thought--indeed, she was quite sure--she heard a little fussing about
the bed-room door, and concluded that the doctor was getting under
cover.

When Mrs. Matchwell had set her empty glass upon the table, she glided
to the window, and Mrs. Mack's guilty conscience smote her, as she saw
her look towards Toole's house. It was only, however, for the coach; and
having satisfied herself it was at hand, she said--

'We'll have some minutes quite private, if you please--'tisn't my
affair, you know, but yours,' said the weird woman.

There had been ample time for the arrangement of Toole's ambuscade. Now
was the moment. The crisis was upon her. But poor Mrs. Mack, just as she
was about to say her little say about the front windows and opposite
neighbours, and the privacy of the back bed-room, and to propose their
retiring thither, felt a sinking of the heart--a deadly faintness, and
an instinctive conviction that she was altogether overmatched, and that
she could not hope to play successfully any sort of devil's game with
that all-seeing sorceress. She had always thought she was a plucky woman
till she met Mistress Mary. Before _her_ her spirit died within her--her
blood flowed hurriedly back to her heart, leaving her body cold, pale,
and damp, and her soul quailing under her gaze.

She cleared her voice twice, and faltered an enquiry, but broke down in
panic; and at that moment Biddy popped in her head--

'The doctor, Ma'am, was sent for to Lucan, an' he won't be back till six
o'clock, an' he left no peppermint drops for you, Ma'am, an' do you want
me, if you plase, Ma'am?'

'Go down, Biddy, that'll do,' said Mrs. Mack, growing first pale, and
then very red.

Mary Matchwell scented death afar off; for her the air was always
tainted with ominous perfumes. Every unusual look or dubious word
thrilled her with a sense of danger. Suspicion is the baleful instinct
of self-preservation with which the devil gifts his children; and hers
never slept.

'_What_ doctor?' said Mrs. Matchwell, turning her large, dismal, wicked
gaze