"Frightened by an echo," she muttered, "and--oh, what a weak-pated fool am I, and how I do let that wicked old beldame play upon me. It is absurd. She has no such power as she pretends; and here have I let her bring me here to sit like a shallow-brained, love-sick girl, with my eyes shut, waiting to see my lover. Eyes shut! How can I see my love. I'll open them. Nay; there may be truth in the spell after all, and, if there is, why should I spoil it when I have gone so far. I wonder whether he will come. How my poor heart beats!" "Coo--coo--oo--oo. Coo--coo--coo--coo--coo--oo," came from somewhere far below. "That's a lover's cry," she said, half laughing, to herself; "but he will not come to me in the form of a dove, unless my heart's set on Jupiter himself. How absurd I am." Quite a quarter of an hour passed away, and still with a wonderful power over her desires she sat upon the piece of sandrock waiting for the fulfilment of Mother Goodhugh's promises. "I'll wait no longer," she cried at last, petulantly. "I cannot keep my eyes closed like this. Where am I? How am I to find my way back home? Oh, what a sorry idiot am I! I'll open my eyes at once, and put an end to this mystery. Hark, what's that?" A low doleful wail was heard overhead, and as she listened it was repeated. "It was a seamew," she whispered, "and that wicked hag must have brought me nearer the shore. What's that?" She bent down a little, listening, for she fancied that she heard a voice, but the sound was not repeated. Then there was a gentle rustle of a leaf, as if some rabbit had passed by, but still she kept her eyes closed, with a lingering faith that the old woman's words might prove true, and all the while her heart went throb throb against the flask containing the love philtre in her bosom. All silent as the grave once more, and she trembled as she heard her own voice. "I'll count a hundred," she whispered to herself, "and then--" She did not finish her sentence, but began slowly under her breath to count one, two, three, four, five, six, and so on right away, heedless of a faint rustle repeated again and again, close at hand, and she went on getting slower and slower in a disappointed manner, as she reluctantly felt that she must keep her word, and open her eyes; and at last it was, "Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, and--Help, help, help! Oh!" Mistress Anne's voice was smothered, and she felt herself tightly held by strong hands. For as she came to the end of her counting task, and sharply opened her eyes, it was to gaze at a broad handkerchief held by two brown hands, drawn tightly across the next moment and secured behind her head, while a second stifled her cries as it was tied over her mouth. "There, my little birdie," said a rough voice, "that will stop your singing for the present. If you can't breathe, give a kick, and we'll ease it off. There, there, don't struggle like that, or you'll rumple your plumage."