now and
then to keep her going. She talked and talked till it was time to light
the lamp. She was particular in telling me to put the shade over it. We
were half in the dark, and half in the light. She trapped me (Lord knows
how!) into talking about foreign parts; I mean the place she lived in
before they sent her to England. Have you heard that she comes from the
West Indies?"

"Yes; I have heard that. Go on."

"Wait a bit, sir. There's something, by your leave, that I want to know.
Do you believe in Witchcraft?"

"I know nothing about it. Did Miss de Sor put that question to you?"

"She did."

"And how did you answer?"

"Neither in one way nor the other. I'm in two minds about that matter
of Witchcraft. When I was a girl, there was an old woman in our village,
who was a sort of show. People came to see her from all the country
round--gentlefolks among them. It was her great age that made her
famous. More than a hundred years old, sir! One of our neighbors didn't
believe in her age, and she heard of it. She cast a spell on his flock.
I tell you, she sent a plague on his sheep, the plague of the Bots. The
whole flock died; I remember it well. Some said the sheep would have had
the Bots anyhow. Some said it was the spell. Which of them was right?
How am I to settle it?"

"Did you mention this to Miss de Sor?"

"I was obliged to mention it. Didn't I tell you, just now, that I can't
make up my mind about Witchcraft? 'You don't seem to know whether you
believe or disbelieve,' she says. It made me look like a fool. I told
her I had my reasons, and then I was obliged to give them."

"And what did she do then?"

"She said, 'I've got a better story of Witchcraft than yours.' And she
opened a little book, with a lot of writing in it, and began to read.
Her story made my flesh creep. It turns me cold, sir, when I think of it
now."

He heard her moaning and shuddering. Strongly as his interest was
excited, there was a compassionate reluctance in him to ask her to go
on. His merciful scruples proved to be needless. The fascination of
beauty it is possible to resist. The fascination of horror fastens
its fearful hold on us, struggle against it as we may. Mrs. Ellmother
repeated what she had heard, in spite of herself.

"It happened in the West Indies," she said; "and the writing of a woman
slave was the writing in the little book. The slave wrote about her
mother. Her mother was a black--a Witch in her own country.