“I don’t know,” cried the visitor, sharply; “but look here, Mother Goodhugh, mind this: my father is a justice, and if you play foul games with me I have only to complain to have you seized and punished as a witch.”
“Me a witch, dearie? Oh, fie! I never pretended to be, only helped you to a little of my knowledge when you came to me.”
“I believe your knowledge is all nonsense,” cried the girl, angrily. “What good has it done?”
“Ah, it is impossible to say,” replied the woman, looking furtively at her visitor; “and you may not have given him the potion at a lucky time. I know it was right, my dear,” she added, in a low, mysterious whisper. “I gathered the herbs myself, and distilled them every one. You don’t know: you can’t tell. He may love you very dearly, and only be holding back from fear of your high place. Was not your father made a titled man just then?”
“Yes,” replied the visitor. “Then that was it,” cried the woman, triumphantly. “Depend upon it, mistress, you have him safe.”
“But he is always with her—always, Mother Goodhugh; and when we meet he has only a contemptuous kind of laugh for me.”
“That means nothing, dearie. It may be only the man’s spirit fighting against his heart. I can’t think, lovey, but what you have him safe. How many times has he had the drink?”
“Nine.”
“And nine drops each time?”
“Yes, as nearly as I could drop them. My hand shook so.”