“Don’t ye come a-nigh me, Martha, don’t ye--don’t ye! And take the blessed child away! Take him away this minute!” “I’ll do nothin’ o’ the kind,” returned Martha vehemently. “Be you gone crazy, mother? Whatever is the matter?” “Nay, my dear, I bain’t gone crazy--it be worse, a deal worse. I can’t tell however it did come about, Martha, but, there, I be turned into a witch! I be evil-eyed, they d’ say! There, ye’d never believe the terr’ble things what have a-come about along o’ me jist lookin’.” Martha dropped down in a chair and burst out laughing. She was a hale, hearty young woman, who had had a bit of schooling, and took a sane and cheerful view of life. “God bless us, mother!” she cried, wiping her eyes at last and springing up, “what put such a notion as that in your head? You a witch! You hurtin’ things wi’ lookin’ at ’em! I never did hear such nonsense-talk in my life!” “But it be true, Martha--it be true!” returned Ann, still hiding her face in her trembling hands. “There, I’ve seed it myself. Don’t you come too nigh, my dear, and for mercy’s sake keep the darlin’ child away!” “Nay, but I won’t,” retorted Martha; and, catching up the child, she advanced with a determined air. “You shall look at us--both of us--that you shall! Kiss grandma, Ally, love--that’s it! Pull away her hands, and give her a big hug. There, the mischief’s done now, if mischief there be. Bain’t he growed, grandma? Bain’t he a fine boy? There, come an’ sit ye down and take en on your knee and feel the weight of en.” Ann could not withstand the spell of the little clinging arms, the kisses rained upon her withered cheek. She suffered the child to climb from his mother’s arms into hers, and hugged him back passionately. “Bless you, my lamb! Bless you, my darlin’ little angel! Dear, but he be a fine boy, Martha. Bless you, love! E-es; grandma ’ull find en a lump o’ sugar. Ah, Martha, I be a-feared--it do seem a terr’ble risk; but, there, I can’t think but what the Lard ’ull purtect the innercent child.” “Now, you come along, mother, and sit ye down, an’ don’t ye go so trembly. You’ll not hurt Ally; he be a deal more like to hurt you, such a mischievous boy as he be. Now, then, whoever has been frightenin’ of ye with such talk?” “My dear, they do all say it,” murmured Ann, looking fearfully round. Brokenly, and with many digressions, she told her tale. Long before she had ended Martha was weeping too--weeping with indignation and with a sense of despair; for, argue as she might, she could not divest her mother of her persuasion in her own fell powers. If Ann herself could not be convinced of the folly of the supposition, what hope could Martha have to do away with the unjust suspicions of the neighbours?