Mistress Anne had gone away directly after her last imperious utterance of the word “mother,” and walked straight to her father’s room.
She had left Dame Beckley busy over her herbal, and she now found her father also on study bent, his book being a kind of magistrates’ vade mecum of those days on the subject of witchcraft, and the author his Majesty the King.
“What are you reading, father?” she said, making him start as she came suddenly behind him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“His Majesty’s book, my dear.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, my dear, it behoves me as a justice of the peace to be well informed of his Majesty’s views respecting the heinous sin of witchcraft, and to know how I should comport myself and deal with so foul a creature in case, at any future time—”
“Mother Goodhugh should be brought before you?”
“Yes, exactly,” said the baronet. “My dear Anne, I’d give almost everything I possess for your clear discerning head.”
“Never mind my head, father,” she said, with a half-laugh; “I want to speak to you about more important things.”
“Yes, my dear, certainly. But won’t you sit down? You worry me when you tower over me so, and threaten, and preach at me. Do sit down, child, pray.”