nington not only of
his home and lands, but his love.

Now, my father prospered at Elmwater Barton. He was a clever man, and
fortune favoured him. He began to lay by money, and he farmed the land
so well that folks said he would in a few years, by the blessing of
God, have enough to buy back the Pennington estates, according to the
terms of his father's will. This was told Richard Tresidder and his
mother one day, and they both laughed. About this time my father's
cattle began to die. No one could explain why, but die they did, until
many rumours were afloat, and people whispered that the cattle were
bewitched. Anyhow, it was asserted that Richard Tresidder had been seen
talking with Betsey Fraddam, the witch, while many delicacies had been
taken to Betsey's cottage from Pennington.

Now, as I said, there will be many things in this narrative which I, an
unlearned man, cannot explain. Still, I must tell of matters as they
occurred, this, among others, especially as my relations with Eli
Fraddam, Betsey's son, have been condemned by Parson Inch. It is said
that the Fraddam family has witchcraft in its veins. Anyhow, it is well
known that Betsey was regarded as a witch, while Eli, her son--but of
the poor gnome I will tell later on.

My father tried everything to cure his cattle, but could not, and what
was more perplexing was the fact that other people's cattle in fields
adjoining suffered not at all. In a few months he was driven to
extremities; he saw his chances of buying back his old home slipping
through his fingers, and what maddened him most was that whenever he
passed Richard Tresidder, the man who lived on his estates, laughed him
in the face.

One day my father was in a field adjoining the Pennington lands when he
saw Richard Tresidder.

"Well, farmer," said Tresidder, with a sneer, "and how are you getting
on?"

Whereupon my father accused him of having dealings with Betsey Fraddam,
and told him he was a black-hearted knave, and other things concerning
himself, which maddened Richard Tresidder so that he jumped over the
hedge that divided them and struck my father with his heavy riding-whip.

Now the Penningtons have always been a large-limbed, powerful race, and,
while they have been slow to anger, they have--thank God--always had a
strong sense of what is just, and have always been regarded as brave
men. Richard Tresidder was a slim, wiry man, and, while strong and
agile, was no match for a man who,