Elizabeth Endorfield had a repute among women which was in its nature something between distinction and notoriety. It was founded on the following items of character. She was shrewd and penetrating; her house stood in a lonely place; she never went to church; she wore a red cloak; she always retained her bonnet indoors and she had a pointed chin. Thus far her attributes were distinctly Satanic; and those who looked no further called her, in plain terms, a witch. But she was not gaunt, nor ugly in the upper part of her face, nor particularly strange in manner; so that, when her more intimate acquaintances spoke of her the term was softened, and she became simply a Deep Body, who was as long-headed as she was high. It may be stated that Elizabeth belonged to a class of suspects who were gradually losing their mysterious characteristics under the administration of the young vicar; though, during the long reign of Mr. Grinham, the parish of Mellstock had proved extremely favourable to the growth of witches. While Fancy was revolving all this in her mind, and putting it to herself whether it was worth while to tell her troubles to Elizabeth, and ask her advice in getting out of them, the witch spoke. “You be down—proper down,” she said suddenly, dropping another potato into the bucket. Fancy took no notice. “About your young man.” Fancy reddened. Elizabeth seemed to be watching her thoughts. Really, one would almost think she must have the powers people ascribed to her. “Father not in the humour for’t, hey?” Another potato was finished and flung in. “Ah, I know about it. Little birds tell me things that people don’t dream of my knowing.” Fancy was desperate about Dick, and here was a chance—O, such a wicked chance—of getting help; and what was goodness beside love! “I wish you’d tell me how to put him in the humour for it?” she said. “That I could soon do,” said the witch quietly. “Really? O, do; anyhow—I don’t care—so that it is done! How could I do it, Mrs. Endorfield?” “Nothing so mighty wonderful in it.” “Well, but how?” “By witchery, of course!” said Elizabeth. “No!” said Fancy. “’Tis, I assure ye. Didn’t you ever hear I was a witch?” “Well,” hesitated Fancy, “I have heard you called so.” “And you believed it?” “I can’t say that I did exactly believe it, for ’tis very horrible and wicked; but, O, how I do wish it was possible for you to be one!” “So I am. And I’ll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry Dick Dewy.” “Will it hurt him, poor thing?” “Hurt who?” “Father.” “No; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by your acting stupidly.” Fancy looked rather perplexed, and Elizabeth went on: “This fear of Lizz—whatever ’tis— By great and small; She makes pretence to common sense, And that’s all.