It was a
crucifix of mother-o'-pearl and silver, the symbol of the Christian
faith. But it seemed to carry no sacred suggestions to the soul of Mr.
Dyceworthy. On the contrary, he looked at it with an expression of meek
ridicule,--ridicule that bordered on contempt.

"A Roman," he murmured placidly to himself, between two large bites of
toast. "The girl is a Roman, and thereby hopelessly damned."

And he smiled again,--more sweetly than before, as though the idea of
hopeless damnation suggested some peculiarly agreeable reflections.
Unfolding his fine cologne-scented cambric handkerchief, he carefully
wiped his fat white fingers free from the greasy marks of the toast,
and, taking up the objectionable cross gingerly, as though it were
red-hot, he examined it closely on all sides. There were some words
engraved on the back of it, and after some trouble Mr. Dyceworthy spelt
them out. They were "_Passio Christi, conforta me. Thelma._"

He shook his head with a sort of resigned cheerfulness.

"Hopelessly damned," he murmured again gently, "unless--"

What alternative suggested itself to his mind was not precisely
apparent, for his thoughts suddenly turned in a more frivolous
direction. Rising from the now exhausted tea-table, he drew out a small
pocket-mirror and surveyed himself therein with a mild approval. With
the extreme end of his handkerchief he tenderly removed two sacrilegious
crumbs that presumed to linger in the corners of his piously pursed
mouth. In the same way he detached a morsel of congealed butter that
clung pertinaciously to the end of his bashfully retreating nose. This
done, he again looked at himself with increased satisfaction, and,
putting by his pocket-mirror, rang the bell. It was answered at once by
a tall, strongly built woman, with a colorless, stolid countenance,--that
might have been carved out of wood for any expression it had in it.

"Ulrika," said Mr. Dyceworthy blandly, "you can clear the table."

Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things together in a
methodical way, without clattering so much as a plate or spoon, and,
piling them compactly on a tray, was about to leave the room, when Mr.
Dyceworthy called to her, "Ulrika!"

"Sir?"

"Did you ever see a thing like this before?" and he held up the crucifix
to her gaze.

The woman shuddered, and her dull eyes lit up with a sudden terror.

"It is the witch's charm!" she muttered thickly, while her pale face
grew yet