All witches and wizards are born strangely and die violently. They are descended always from old mysterious breeds, from women who wrought domestic magic and perished for its sake, and from men who wrought other magic among lost causes and wars without gain, and fell and died, still surprised, still interested, with their faces among flowers. All men who die so are not wizards, nor are all martyred and adventuring women witches, but all such bring a potential strain of magic into their line. "A witch," said Sarah Brown. "Of course. I have been trying to remember what broomsticks reminded me of. A witch, of course. I have always wished to be friends with a witch." The witch was unaware that the proper answer to this was: "Oh, my Dear, _do_ let's. Do you know I had quite a _crush_ on you from the first minute." She did not answer at all, and Sarah Brown, who was tired of proper answers, was not sorry. Nevertheless the pause seemed a little empty, so she filled it herself, saying pedantically: "Of course I don't believe friendship is an end in itself. Only a means to an end." "I don't know what you mean," said the witch, after wrestling conscientiously with this remark for a minute. "Do tell me--do you know yourself, or are you just saying it to see what it means?" Sarah Brown was obviously damped by this, and the witch added kindly: "I bet you twopence you don't know what this place is." "A shop," said Sarah Brown, who was sitting on the counter. "It is a sort of convent and monastery mixed," replied the witch. "I am connected with it officially. I undertook to manage it, yet I forget what the proper word for me is. Not undertaker, is it?" "Superintendent or secretary," suggested Sarah Brown moodily. "Superintendent, I think," said the witch. "At least I know Peony calls me Soup. Do you live alone?" "Yes." "Then you ought to live here. This is the only place in the world of its kind. The name of this house is Living Alone. I'll read you the prospectus." She fell suddenly upon her knees and began fighting with a drawer. The drawer was evidently one of the many descendants of the Sword Excalibur--none but the appointed hand could draw it forth. The witch, after a struggle, passed this test, and produced a parchment covered with large childish printing in red ink. "My employer made up this," said the witch. "And the ferryman wrote it out for us." This is the prospectus: The name of this house is Living Alone.