“Hush—sh—sh, my dear, ye don’t know nothin’ about them things,” put in Mrs. Hardy with apologetic haste. “But they was known an’ tried by others afore ye was born. Ye make an image in the likeness of the person as you know is trying to do you harm, and ye put it down to roast at a slow fire. Dear yes, I’ve often heard of it.” “Well, then ye don’t seem to have heard the rights on it,” interposed Aunt Betty, indignant at this encroachment on her peculiar province. “There’s a deal more to be done than just set it down to roast same’s a chicken.” “Then what must ye do?” inquired Kate in awe-struck tones. “Ah,” seized by a sudden thought, “I can mind it now. Ye must stick the image full of pins first.” “That’s it?” said old Betty, nodding reluctantly. “But there’s more than that too. There’s summat as must be _said_.” “I never heerd tell o’ nothin bein’ said, an’ I can mind my cousin Lizzie castin’ a spell over her step-mother wi’ an image like that, an’ she were took wi’ the rheumatiz the next week an’ never looked up arter.” “’Twarn’t on account of the spell then if she didn’t say nothin’,” retorted Betty contemptuously. “No spell would ever work wi’out the words. Why, did ye never hear tell o’ saying the Lard’s Prayer back’ards, beginnin’ with Amen?” “Lard no! that I didn’t! An’ it bain’t what I’d like to be doin’, Aunt Betty.” “Neither should I, my dear—’tis just what I be a-tellin’ ’ee. But charm won’t work wi’out ye do.” A pause ensued, after which Kate, rising disconsolately and crooking her arm into her heavy market-basket, remarked that it was time to be goin’. Jim rose too, and stood dismally facing his great-aunt. “If ye like to come back in a few days I’ll get that love charm ready,” she remarked compassionately. “Bain’t there no maid as knows her as ye could get to sew it somewhere about her clothes?” “No,” retorted Jim sullenly. “I’ll not try no love charms. I’ll try my hand at gettin’ rid o’ _him_ first.” Mother and son trudged away together in gloomy silence. The early dusk had closed in upon the autumnal landscape. In the little town they had left behind, lights were beginning to gleam forth, but before them there was only the dim glimmer of the wet road to guide them on their way. Now and then a van passed them, jogging downwards to the town, or a heavily-laden waggon with the carter slouching alongside, and growling out Good-night as he went by. All at once Jim nudged his mother, and pointed with a trembling finger. “It’s him,” he whispered hoarsely. Against the uncertain grey background of the road a broad-shouldered young figure came swinging into sight, the outline of the broad-brimmed cavalier hat which marked the yeoman being plainly perceptible. As he drew near to the couple he paused, peering through the dusk. “Hullo, Jim Hardy!” he cried gaily, “any message for Chrissy? I’m glad to see you walking with a lady—I’ll tell her you’ve picked up another sweetheart.”