what nonsense!" Anstice, whose mother had
been an Irishwoman, had heard of the superstition before, had even known
an old crone in a little Irish cabin high up in the mountains who had,
so it was said, practised the rite with success; but to hear the unholy
gospel from Cherry's innocent lips was distinctly distasteful; and
instinctively he tried to shake her faith in Tochatti's teaching.

"'Tisn't nonsense--at least I don't think so," said Cherry, rather
dubiously. "Of course Nurse Marg'ret didn't die.... I don't think she
even got ill--but p'raps Tochatti didn't stick the pins in far 'nuff."

"Well, I'm quite sure if she stuck in all the pins out of your
cherry-tree pincushion it wouldn't affect Nurse Margaret or anybody
else," said Anstice, putting his arm round her shoulders as he spoke.
"And you really mustn't get such silly notions into your head, Cherry
Ripe!"

"That's what Iris used to call me," said Cherry, burrowing her head
contentedly into his neck. "I wish she was back, don't you, my dear?
Somehow things don't seem half such fun without Iris--I can't think what
she wanted to go and marry Uncle Bruce for, can you?"

"There are many things I can't understand, little Cherry," said Anstice
with a smile whose sadness was hidden from the child. "But I agree with
you that it was much nicer when Iris"--he might venture here to use the
beloved little name--"was at home. But we can't always have the people
we like with us, can we?"

"No--or I'd always have you, my dear," said Cherry with unexpected
though rather sleepy affection; and as Anstice, touched by the words,
kissed her upturned little face, her pretty brown eyes closed
irresistibly.

"Good-night, Cherry! Pleasant dreams!" He laid her back deftly on her
pillows and the child was asleep almost before he had time to reach the
door.

But as he went back to the drawing-room, eager to tell Mrs. Carstairs
and Sir Richard of the revelations so innocently made by Cherry, he
wondered whether at last the mystery were really within reach of a
solution.

Cherry's story, although fragmentary and confused, was sufficiently
coherent to rank as evidence; and although he could hardly credit
Tochatti with a genuine belief in the old superstition of the wax image
he reminded himself she was half a Southerner; and that in some of the
mediaeval Italian towns and cities superstitions still thrive, in spite
of the teaching of the modern world.

And if Cherry's story were