“Are ye not afraid of the Judgment?” Madam Tutterville was saying, ever more fancifully biblical as her wrath rose higher. “So it’s your eye that’s sore, Deborah! I’m not surprised. Remember how Elijah the sorcerer was struck blind by Peter!” Deborah wailed: “Please, ma’am, it wasn’t Peter, it was the cat’s tail!” “The cat’s tail, Deborah! There is no truth in thy bones!” “Tut, tut!” here interposed Master Simon. “Who bid you go to the cat’s tail?—Sophia, life is short. You are wasting an hour of valuable existence. Go away!” “’Tis the punishment of the deceitful man,” intoned Madam Tutterville from her window as from a pulpit, and emphatically pounded the sill. “‘By their figs ye shall know them!’ This cat’s tail work is the fruit of the tree of your black art, Simon Rickart, of your unholy necrology!” The simpler’s voice cut in like a knife: “Who bid you rub your sore eye with a cat’s tail?” “Please, sir, please, ma’am, Peter hadn’t anything to say to it, indeed he hadn’t. But, please, ma’am, it was parson’s brindled cat, and Mrs. Rachael—that’s the cook at Madam’s, sir—she do tell me nothing be better for a sore eye than the wiping of it with a brindled cat’s tail. And please, ma’am, I held him while she did rub my sore eye.” “Mrs. Rachael!” This was none less than Sophia’s own estimable cook, who read her Bible as earnestly as Madam herself, and was the stoutest church woman (and the best cook) in the country; the model, in fact, of Madam Tutterville’s making. Master Simon was deftly laving the inflamed eye. And into the silence allowed for this startling minute by his sister’s discomfiture he dropped a few sarcastic words: “You are fond of texts, Sophia.—Here is one for you: ‘First cast the beam out of thine own eye.’ You have an admirable way of applying them, pray apply this: ‘Cast the sorcery out of thine own kitchen.’ Cats’ tails, indeed! Now, remember, child! (has anyone got a soft handkerchief) I am the only proper authorised magician in this county. If you want magic, come to me and leave Mrs. Rachael and her brindled receipts severely alone. You understand what I mean; I am Bindon’s sorcerer as much as parson is Bindon’s parson.” Here he seized the silk handkerchief which Ellinor silently offered and began to fold it neatly on the table. Next, from his basket he selected certain bright-green leaves of smooth and cool texture. One of these he clapped over the flaming orb, and tied the silk handkerchief neatly across it. “And with that upon your eye, my dear, you may defy,” he remarked, maliciously, “even the witch and her cat.—Let me see it next Friday.” The poor lady at the window was by no means willing to admit defeat; but, nonplussed for the moment, she babbled more incoherently than usual in the endeavour to return the attack. “The Devil can quote scripts from texture!”