r yourself and heard her story."

"That is plainly my duty," said the Judge. "Clerk, call the next
case."

As the clerk read the name of the accused and the charge against her,
the eyes of the Judge were fixed curiously upon the prisoner at the
bar, as if he sought for something forgotten.

Tall and dark, with sunburned face and fearless eyes, she stood
quietly while her way of life was told; her dwelling, since the death
of her parents, in a cottage on the heath beyond the town; her comings
and goings among the neighbours; her wonderful cures of sick animals
and strange diseases, but especially of little children. There were
some who testified that she was wilful and malicious; yet it appeared
they could only allege she had withheld her cure, saying that it was
beyond her power. The doctor was bitter against her, as an unlawful
person; and the parson condemned her, though she came often to church;
"for," said he, "the Scripture commands us, 'Thou shalt not suffer a
witch to live.'"

The face of the Judge was troubled. "Tell me," he said, leaning
forward and speaking gravely, "are you a witch?"

"Not for evil, my Lord," answered the woman simply, "but I have a
healing gift."

"How do you work your cures?" he asked. "What do you to the children?"

"I open the windows of the room where they lie," she answered.

The face of the Judge relaxed, and his eyes twinkled kindly. "And
then?" said he.

"I throw the black draught out of the window and tell the children a
tale of the Garden of Good Dreams."

"Is that all?" said the Judge, shading his face with his hand.

"No, my Lord," replied the woman. "When the children are near to
sleep, I put my charm in their hands."

"Whence had you this charm?" he said. "And what is it?"

"I pray your Lordship," cried the woman, "ask me not, for I can never
tell."

"Let me see it," said the Judge, with a smile.

So the woman, trembling and reluctant, drew a dark-red ribbon from her
breast, and at the end of it a packet of fine linen bound closely with
white silk. She laid it before the Judge. He broke the silken thread
and unrolled the linen, fold after fold, until he came to a yellow
piece of paper with writing on it, and in the paper a crooked sixpence
of King James.

The coin and the scrap of paper lay in his hand as he looked up and
met the shrewd questioning eyes of Sir Richard.

"Yes," answered the Baron Harcourt in a low voice, "you have seen the
coin before, and