"Yes, sir, folks do say that the young lady, leastways, the squire's adopted daughter, is—is——" (here he put his finger to his lips and looked still more mysterious).
"Well?" said I, impatiently.
"That the poor young lady is under some evil spell—that she is bewitched."
"Dear me! you don't say so," I exclaimed, with well-feigned astonishment.
"Yes, sir," he replied; "leastways, so folks say about here."
"How very dreadful! Poor young lady! Perhaps she is in love. Love is the only witchcraft that ever came in the way of my experience," I remarked.
"And sure, sir, you're not far out there neither; for if there's one thing more like witchcraft than another, it is that same love. Lor', bless yer, sir, don't I remember when I was courtin' my Poll, how I'd stand under her winder of a rainy night for hours, just to get a peep at her shadow on the winder blind, and how I'd go for days without my beer, till folks didn't know what to make of me? Ah! but I got over it, though, in time. I got cured, but" (here he gave me a knowing look) "it wasn't by a doctor. No, sir, it wasn't by a doctor," he said, with a contemptuous emphasis on the last word.
"Now, who do you think it was by, sir, that I got cured?" he asked.
"I haven't the slightest idea," I replied, dryly, disgusted at the man's manner.
"Why, the Parson! to be sure," he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!" giving me a dig in the ribs with his undeveloped thumb. "Yes, sir, the parson beat the doctor out and out in that ere business. He, he!"