“What is it, my bird? What have I done?”
“You called me a witch,” she said, with a slight shudder, but trying to laugh it off.
“Well! an’ if I did?” he said, laughing.
“It was foolish to mind,” she said; “but Mother Goodhugh just now was angry with me, and called me witch, and uttered threats.”
“Against thee?” cried the founder, angrily. “I say, then, let her curses return upon her own head, witch that she is herself. She shall go from Roehurst before this time to-morrow.”
“Nay, nay, father,” cried Mace, hastily; “don’t visit her mad ravings upon her. Let her rest. Poor thing! she’s crazed with grief. Let her be—for my sake, let her be.”
“What, and let her some day bring evil upon us by her witcheries?”
“What, and is my stout, brave father going to have faith in what yon silly woman says!” cried Mace, laughing. “Come, father, promise me you will not have her touched.”
“I’ll promise thee anything, child,” he said, smoothing her soft hair, and bending down to kiss her cheek.
“Anything, father?” she cried.