ngs and de queens. De great Obi
spirit come down to us, when de moon am at its last quarter, an he tell
us how to cure and how to kill. We mix de charm at midnight, wid de
great Obi 'pearin' to us all de time in de smoke dat rises from de
kettle, an de secret words all de time a mutterin'; and de charm works,
an kills or cures 'way off hunerds of miles, 'cordin' as we want um for
our friens or our enemies. Does you hear, honey?"

"I hear!" said Egbert Crawford, for the moment absorbed if not
fascinated by the developments of this real or affected superstition;
but not carried away, it may be believed, from the influence which this
hideous old woman might be able to exert on his own fortunes.

"Mammy--you don't 'member ole Mammy?"--the old woman went on. "Captain
Lewis brought Mammy an me from Jamaica more'n fifty years ago. She mus'
have died when you was a little picanninny. She was de great Obi woman,
de queen of dem all; and she tole me afore she died, so's I could do
mos' as much. Many's de lub potion Mammy an me has mixed up, dat has
made some ob de wite bosoms fuller afore dey was done workin; and many's
de charm--"

"Poh! nonsense! don't say 'charm'; call it 'dose'!" broke in the lawyer,
at last impatient. "I believe you can kill, whether you can cure or not,
Aunt Synchy; but I am a man, with some experience in the world, and I
don't believe in your Obi. All your dead cats and babies' hands and
snakes yonder, are just so many tricks to influence the superstitious.
_I_ know better, and they don't influence _me_!"

"Oh, dey doesn't, eh, honey? You is too smart an don't believe in de
Obi?" For the moment her face was lowering and threatening--then it
changed again to the same wrinkled Sphynx as before. "Nebber mind--you
is my boy, an I lubs you, an so you 'sult de ole woman widout de Obi
payin' you for it! Call it 'dose,' then, honey--many's de dose dat dese
hans have mixed, dat has made de coffin-maker hab somefin to do and sent
de property where it belonged."

"I believe you!" was the laconic comment of Egbert Crawford, when the
crone, spite of his interruptions, had finished her long rigmarole. What
followed may quite as well be imagined as described. Richard Crawford
was doomed to be operated upon by one of those insidious and deadly
vegetable poisons, outwardly applied, in which none have such horrible
skill as the crones of the African race who have derived their knowledge
from the West India Islands. Whe