How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth from her father’s house—how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I told her all, I say, believing that she—whose curse was working so upon the life of her innocent grandchild—was the only person who could find the remedy and the redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many minutes. “You love Mary’s child?” she asked. “I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse—I love her. Yet I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must shrink from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off. Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!” “Where is she?” I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed. “I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. Bridget tightened her hold upon my arm. “Not so,” said she, in a low, hoarse voice. “It would kill me to see her again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked my work. Leave me!” said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross. “I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!” She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was banished. I lingered—why I can hardly tell—until once more she bade me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her planting the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been. The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone. CHAPTER III.