"Now just you tell her," answered Stephen, with a significant wink, "I've heard say the White Witch of Bensington makes wonderful cures with marsh-mallows poultice: maybe it would ease her." "I'll let her know, be sure," said Derette: and Stephen took his leave as Leuesa returned with her purchase. He had told her nothing about Ermine: he had told her every thing. Derette thanked God for the--apparently causeless--impulse to mention her sister's accident, which had just given Stephen the opportunity to utter the last and most important item. Not the slightest doubt disturbed her mind that Ermine was in the keeping of the White Witch of Bensington, and that Stephen was satisfied of the Wise Woman's kind treatment and good faith. She was sorry for Gerhardt and Agnes; but she had loved Ermine best of all. As for Rudolph, if Ermine were safe, why should he not be likewise? Derette's was a hopeful nature, not given to look on the dark side of any thing which had a light one: a tone of mind which, as has been well said, is worth a thousand a year to its possessor. Leuesa returned full of excitement. A wolf had been killed only three miles from the city, and the Earl had paid the sportsman fourpence for its head, which was to be sent up to the King--the highest price ever given for a wolf's head in that county. The popular idea that Edgar exterminated all the wolves in England is an error. Henry Second paid tenpence for three wolves' heads [Pipe Roll, 13 Henry Second], and Henry Third's State Papers speak of "hares, wolves, and cats," in the royal forests [Close Roll, 38 Henry Third]. The days went on, and Stephen received no summons to the Wise Woman's hut. He found it very hard to keep away. If he could only have known that all was going on right! But weeks and months passed by, and all was silence. Stephen almost made up his mind to brave the witch's anger, and go without bidding. Yet there would be danger in that, for Anania, who had been piqued by his parrying of her queries, watched him as a cat watches a mouse. He was coming home, one evening in early summer, having been on guard all day at the East Gate, when, as he passed the end of Snydyard (now Oriel) Street, a small child of three or four years old toddled up to him, and said-- "There! Take it." Stephen, who had a liking for little toddlers, held out his hand with a smile; and grew suddenly grave when there was deposited in it a ball of grey wool. "Who gave thee this?" "Old man--down there--said, `Give it that man with the brown hat,'" was the answer. Stephen thanked the child, threw it a sweetmeat, with which his pocket was generally provided, and ran after the old man, whom he overtook at the end of the street. "What mean you by this?" he asked. The old man looked up blankly. "I know not," said he. "I was to take it to Stephen the Watchdog,-- that's all I know." "Tell me who gave it you, then?" "I can't tell you--a woman I didn't know." "Where?"