'Do they really do all these things, sir?' 'Surely; for such as you, my boy.' I clapped my hands. 'You see!' he said to my mother. Many a time after this did my mother ransack her mental store, and bring forth bright-coloured fancies to make me glad. She told Jane Painter what the doctor said, and asked her to tell me the prettiest stories she knew. Jane Painter replied with one of her sweetest smiles. It was part of her duties to put me to bed every night, and one night, soon after I was well, she came into my room in the dark, as I was lying half awake and half asleep. She crept up the stairs and into the room so stealthily that I had no consciousness of her presence until a sepulchral voice stole upon my ears saying, 'Ho! Mister Friar, Don't be so bold, For fear you should make My 'eart's blood run cold!' My heart's blood did run cold at these dreadful words, and I uttered a cry of fright. Then Jane Painter spoke in her natural tone. 'I knew a boy once, and his name was Namby-Pamby. He was the greatest coward that ever breathed, and he was always telling tales. I know what happened to him at last. You're like him. Perhaps it'll happen to you. A fine boy you are! You ought to have been born a rabbit. I suppose you'll tell your mother. All cowards do.' Here she must have put her head up the chimney, for her voice sounded very hollow as she repeated, 'Ho! Mister Friar, Don't be so bold, For fear you should make My 'eart's blood run cold!' I cannot describe my terror. I wrapped the counterpane tightly round my head, and lay all of a tremble until Jane Painter thought fit to take her departure. From that night she inflicted the most dreadful tortures upon me. The first thing she did after putting me to bed was to blow out the candle; then she would calmly sit down and tell me frightful stories of murders and ghosts. Blood was her favourite theme; she absolutely revelled in it, and to this day I cannot look upon it without a shudder. She would prowl about the room, muttering: 'I smell blood! I smell blood!' And then: 'Let him be alive, Or let him be dead, I'll have his blood to make my wine, I'll grind his bones to make my bread.' After that she would grind her teeth, and make sounds as though she were drinking. 'Serve him right, too, the little coward! Grind his bones on two large stones. His blood and brine I'll drink for wine.' I suffered this martyrdom in silence. I would not tell my mother, as all cowards did. What the effect on me would have been if circumstances had allowed Jane Painter to continue her persecution I am afraid to think; but fortunately for me the event occurred which she was waiting for. My grandmother died very suddenly. The last words she was heard to utter were, Poor Anthony!' I was not sorry when she died. I tried to look sad, as everybody else looked, but I knew that I was a dreadful hypocrite. CHAPTER III. MY GRANDMOTHER'S LONG STOCKING.