serenely away.

"Three days!" muttered the Sergeant, looking after him. "Zounds--I
wonder!" So saying, he put away the foils and taking a pair of shears
set himself to trim one of the tall yew hedges, though more than once
he paused to rub his chin and murmur: "Three days--I wonder?"

This remark he had just uttered for perhaps the twentieth time when,
roused by a hurried, shambling step, he glanced up and saw Roger, one
of the under-gardeners who, touching an eyebrow, glanced over right
shoulder, glanced over left, and spoke:

"Sergeant I do ha' worked here i' the park an' grounds twenty-five year
man an' boy, an' in all that length o' days I never knowed it to happen
afore, an' now it 'ave happened all of a shakesome sweat I be,
hares-foot or no--an' that's what!"

"What's to do, Roger?"

"'Tis the eyes of 'er, Sergeant! 'Tis 'er mumping an' 'er mowing!
'Tis all the brimstoney look an' ways of 'er as turns a man's good
flesh to flesh o' goose, 'is bones to jelly an' 'is bowels to
water--an' that's what!"

"Nay, but what is't, Roger man?"

"'Ere's me, look'ee, trimming them borders, Sergeant, so 'appy-'earted
as any bird and all at once, I falls to coldsome, quakesome shivers, my
'eart jumps into my jaws, my knees knocks an' trembles horrorsome-like,
an' I sweats----"

"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant.

"Then I feels a ghas'ly touch o' quakesome fingers as shoots all
through my vitals--like fire, Sergeant and--there she is at my elber!"

"Who, Roger?"

"And 'er looks at me doomful, Sergeant, an' that's what!"

"Aye, but who, Roger, damme who?"

"'Tis th' owd witch as do be come for 'ee an' that's what!"

"Name of a dog!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "For me?"

"Aye," nodded Roger, glancing over his shoulder again, "'I want the
Sergeant,' says she roupysome and grim-like, 'bring me the fine, big,
sojer-sergeant,' she says."

"And what's her will wi' me?" enquired the Sergeant, glancing about
uneasily.

"Wants to blast 'ee belike, Sergeant," groaned Roger. "Or mayhap she
be minded only to 'witch 'ee wi' a bloody flux, or a toothache, or a
windy colic or--Angels o' mercy, there she be a-coming!"

Turning hastily the Sergeant beheld a bowed, cloaked figure that
hobbled towards them on a stick. The Sergeant let fall the shears and
thrusting hand into frilled shirt, grasped a small, gold cross in his
sinewy fingers.

Being come up to them the old creature paused and showed a face brown,
wrinkled a