“Ah,” cried the woman, eagerly, “what did I tell thee? Nine drops nine times dropped make eighty-one, and eight and one are nine.”
“Yes,” said Anne Beckley.
“Did I not warn thee that any mistake would spoil the spell?”
“Yes, but that could not matter.”
“Ah, that is not for me to say,” replied the woman. “But there, sit ye down, dearie, and I’ll do what I can for you. If it wasn’t that you love him I’d say to you let him go on in his terrifying ways, and wed her if he will. She belongs to an accursed race, and would bring him never good.”
“But she shan’t marry him!” cried Anne, with flashing eyes. “I hate her, Mother Goodhugh, and would sooner see her dead. She’s a witch. I’m sure she’s a witch.”
“And why are you sure, lovey?”
“Because—because—she bewitches men to her, and holds them by her side. I have tried, oh, so hard, but I cannot.”
“Nay, child, nay, but you can, though not so strongly; for you do it by good, while she does it by ill.”
“But I can’t, Mother Goodhugh,” cried the girl, petulantly.