an apology for a fire, and threw out the smallest possible heat to warm the shrivelled palms held up ever and anon before it. As she sat, occasionally rocking herself backwards and forwards, she sang, in a voice which sometimes sounded high and shrill, till it rose into almost a shriek, and then again sank down into a long-continued moan. She uttered words often with great rapidity, though even the poor creature herself might scarcely have been able to explain the burden of her song. The gentle breeze, pleasant in the cheerful sunshine, sighed through the rents in the tottering walls, and amid the branches of the solitary, crooked pine-tree, which bent its riven head over the building, its distorted limbs creaking and groaning as they swayed to and fro; while an owl shrieked his twit-to-hoo to the departing sun, as he prepared to go abroad with other creatures of the night in search of prey; and cold grey twilight covered the mountain-side. There still sat the lone old woman, crouching over the mocking fire. Dark and drear was the hovel—floor it had none, save the damp, cold earth—nor was there a chimney or other outlet for the smoke, except a hole which a branch of the ill-favoured pine-tree had made in the roof, in one of his most restless moods. More light came through this hole than through the window, the broken panes of which were stuffed with rags, dry grass, and heather, though not tight enough to prevent the wind from whistling, and the rain, snow, and sleet from driving in upon the wretched inmate. Except where the solitary gleam of cold evening light fell upon the crouching figure of poor Mountain Moggy, all else in the hovel was gloom and obscurity. Little, however, did Moggy heed the weather. Winter or summer, chilling blasts or warm sunshine, the changeful seasons brought no change to her. Her brain was on fire, her heart cold and forlorn, “icy cold, utterly forlorn and deserted,” so she says, and all feeling for outward things has long since departed.

Why does Moggy start, clasp her bony hands, open wide her almost sightless eyes, and mutter, “Yes, yes—that’s it. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. But it’s hard, very hard to forgive our foes. Does God find it so hard to forgive me?” Then again she starts off in her wild song.

Once more she is silent, and listens to some noises outside. She seems sorely distressed. Again and again she starts. The noises increase, children’s feet and voices are heard around the hut, and—is it possible?—a stone comes whizzing through the glassless window across the darkened space, and a heavy thump announces that it has found a destination; another, and another follows—some come in sideways, and one striking the window bar glances off and reaches the hearth, whence it drives before it a lighted stick which sends out sparks on every side and causes a faint gleam of light in the hitherto gloomy room. Shouts of laughter accompany each stone; but the sun has set, the sonorous bell of the distant church gives notice, too, that evening has arrived. The children’s ears catch the sound. “Away, away! Home, home!” they shout, as they run off from the solitary hut. Out of its window at that moment a bright light shone forth, but they did not heed it as they chased each other down the steep mountain-side, crying out, “Good-night, old witch. We’ll stone you again, old Polly Forty Rags. If we hear any more of your witcheries we’ll make you wish you’d kept out of this country. Good-night, and bad luck to you, Old Mog.” Notwithstanding the words they used, there was terror in the voices of most of the children. Some of them shouted, “She’s coming after us! The witch is coming after us! She’s mounting her broom, and out she’ll ride. Run—run—run!” On this the urchins shrieked louder, and ran faster and faster down the slope. One boy, more daring than the rest, and superior in appearance to most of them, lingered behind, and finding a stone remaining in his pocket of those with which he had, like his companions, provided himself to attack the old woman, he turned round once more, and flung it in the direction of the hut, saying, as he did so, “That’s my parting gift, old Moggy. Ha, ha! I see the old lady is going to have a feast tonight, for she has lighted up her banqueting-hall. But I would rather not be one of the guests, though.” Pleased with what he considered his own wit, he shouted out again, and ran after his idle companions, a prolonged cry which came from the hut hastening his steps, for he was in no degree free from the ignorant superstition of the rest of the urchin troop.