nst her now.
Instead, Lois's memory was filled with grateful thoughts of how much
that might have been left undone, by a less conscientious person, her
aunt had done for her, and she half stretched out her arms as to a
friend in that desolate place, while she answered:

'Oh no, no you were very good! very kind!'

But Grace stood immovable.

'I did you no harm, although I never rightly knew why you came to us.'

'I was sent by my mother on her death-bed,' moaned Lois, covering her
face. It grew darker every instant. Her aunt stood, still and silent.

'Did any of mine ever wrong you?' she asked, after a time.

'No, no; never, till Prudence said--Oh, aunt, do you think I am a
witch?' And now Lois was standing up, holding by Grace's cloak, and
trying to read her face. Grace drew herself, ever so little, away from
the girl, whom she dreaded, and yet sought to propitiate.

'Wiser than I, godlier than I, have said it. But oh, Lois, Lois! he was
my first-born. Loose him from the demon, for the sake of Him whose name
I dare not name in this terrible building, filled with them who have
renounced the hopes of their baptism; loose Manasseh from his awful
state, if ever I or mine did you a kindness!'

'You ask me for Christ's sake,' said Lois. 'I can name that holy
name--for oh, aunt! indeed, and in holy truth, I am no witch; and yet I
am to die--to be hanged! Aunt, do not let them kill me! I am so young,
and I never did any one any harm that I know of.'

'Hush! for very shame! This afternoon I have bound my first-born with
strong cords, to keep him from doing himself or us a mischief--he is so
frenzied. Lois Barclay, look here!' and Grace knelt down at her niece's
feet, and joined her hands as if in prayer--'I am a proud woman, God
forgive me! and I never thought to kneel to any save to Him. And now I
kneel at your feet, to pray you to release my children, more especially
my son Manasseh, from the spells you have put upon them. Lois, hearken
to me, and I will pray to the Almighty for you, if yet there may be
mercy.'

'I cannot do it; I never did you or yours any wrong. How can I undo it?
How can I?' And she wrung her hands in intensity of conviction of the
inutility of aught she could do.

Here Grace got up, slowly, stiffly, and sternly. She stood aloof from
the chained girl, in the remote corner of the prison cell near the
door, ready to make her escape as soon as she had cursed the witch, who
would not, or could not,