“I don’t know,” said the woman rather shortly. “We’se not friends.”
“Why not?” asked Margaret, who had formerly been the peace-maker of the village.
“She stole my cat.”
“Did she know it was yours?”
“I don’t know. I reckon not.”
“Well! could not you get it back again when you told her it was yours?”
“No! for she’d burnt it.”
“Burnt it!” exclaimed both Margaret and Mr. Bell.
“Roasted it!” explained the woman.
It was no explanation. By dint of questioning, Margaret extracted from her the horrible fact that Betty Barnes, having been induced by a gipsy fortune-teller to lend the latter her husband’s Sunday clothes, on promise of having them faithfully returned on the Saturday night before Goodman Barnes should have missed them, became alarmed by their non-appearance, and her consequent dread of her husband’s anger, and as, according to one of the savage country superstitions, the cries of a cat, in the agonies of being boiled or roasted alive; compelled (as it were) the powers of darkness to fulfil the wishes of the executioner, resort had been had to the charm. The poor woman evidently believed in its efficacy; her only feeling was indignation that her cat had been chosen out from all others for a sacrifice. Margaret listened in horror; and endeavoured in vain to enlighten the woman’s mind; but she was obliged to give it up in despair. Step by step she got the woman to admit certain facts, of which the logical connexion and sequence was perfectly clear to Margaret; but at the end, the bewildered woman simply repeated her first assertion, namely, that “it were very cruel for sure, and she should not like to do it; but that there was nothing like it for giving a person what they wished for; she had heard it all her life; but it were very cruel for all that.” Margaret gave it up in despair, and walked away sick at heart.