When we were about to leave the room, she laid a trembling, withered hand on my husband's arm,— "Don't let her get a hold on thee, don't, now, Master Neddy," she whispered. "I tell 'e she bain't right. There's them has seen mun in other forms than mun wears now, and in strange places. And it bain't for nought that the white owl has whooped and screamed every night since she came hither. No, no, the white owl doesn't screech like that for nought, though you make light o' mun, Master Neddy. But oh, have a care! I have put a branch of rowan over your bed, and a four-leaved clover under every threshold, so she can work no harm here. But oh, have a care, my lambs, and be sure to taste bread and salt the first thing!" I must confess I was silly enough to observe this precaution against witchcraft, when we sat down to supper. At the table we were introduced to Dr. Kirton, a cunning, plausible sort of man, who was rather obtrusively civil in his manners, and to whom I took a huge dislike on the instant. My husband had brought his father some fine tobacco, and a pretty box full of snuff. The old gentleman received them with satisfaction, and seemed inclined to be more friendly than at first; asking Ned about one old acquaintance and another, and telling him about the cattle and horses, especially a fine blood mare he had bought for my riding. Then turning to me, he asked me if I were a good horsewoman. "Only passable, sir," I answered. "I never rode at all till last winter, but my uncle has taken great pains to teach me, and, if you will do the same, I hope you will find me an apt scholar." "Indeed, sir, Dolly is a very good horsewoman, considering," said Edward. "She is very fearless, and that is half the battle, you know." "So it is, so it is," replied the old gentleman. "But how happened it that you never learned before last winter, chick?" "Because I never had a chance, sir," I answered. "I have been in my uncle's family not quite a year. Before that I lived in London. We only came down to Devon about Christmas-tide." "In London, eh? I did not think I was to have a fine London lady for a daughter, but you don't look like a Londoner! Eh, Rebecca?" addressing the lady at the head of the table, who had stiffened more and more, the more her husband relaxed. "I know nothing of the matter," she answered tartly. "I never was in London in my life, and never wish to be." "If I have not seen you there, I am as much mistaken as ever I was," I said to myself. The more I looked at her, the more sure I was that I had seen her before. "Well, well! I should have taken you for Devon born, and North Devon at that," said my father-in-law. "Who is she so like, Rowson?" The remark was addressed to the vicar of the parish,—a heavy, good-natured looking man, who had come in after we sat down, and been introduced as Mr. Rowson. He looked, I must say, any thing but a reverend priest, and yet I took a certain liking to him from the first.