or those who must work seven years for another before they can do aught
for themselves. And often when their time is out they are bowed and
broken; and those whom they love at home, and would bring over, are
dead; and often before the seven years have passed they die themselves.
And I am sorry for those whom you call rebels, for the Oliverians; and
for the convicts, despised and outcast. And for the Indians about us,
dispossessed and broken, and--yes, I am sorry for the Quakers."

"I waste no pity on the under dog," said Sir Charles. "Keep him
down--and with a heavy hand--or he will fly at your throat."

"Hark!" said Patricia.

Some one in the distance was singing:--

"Gentle herdsman, tell to me
Of courtesy I thee pray,
Unto the town of Walsingham,
Which is the right and ready way?

"Unto the town of Walsingham
The way is hard for to be gone,
And very crooked are those paths
For you to find out all alone."

The notes were wild and plaintive, and sounded sadly through the
gathering dusk. A figure flitted towards them between the shadowy tree
trunks.

"It is Mad Margery," said Patricia.

"And who is Mad Margery?" asked Sir Charles.

"No one knows, cousin. She does not know herself. Ten years ago a ship
came in with servants, and she was on it. She was mad then. The captain
could give no account of her, save that when, the day after sailing, he
came to count the servants, he found one more than there should have
been, and that one a woman, stupid from drugs. She had been spirited on
board the ship, that was all he could say. It's a common occurrence, as
you know. She never came to herself,--has always been what she is now.
She was sold to a small planter, and cruelly treated by him. After a
time my father heard her story and bought her from her master. She has
been with us ever since. Her term of service is long out; but there is
nothing that could drive her from this plantation. She wanders about as
she pleases, and has a cabin in the woods yonder; for she will not live
in the quarters. They say that she is a white witch; and the Indians,
who reverence the mad, lay maize and venison at her door."

The voice, shrill and sweet, rang out close at hand.

"Thy years are young, thy face is fair,