"Ulrika," said Mr. Dyceworthy blandly, "you can clear the table."
Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things together in a methodical way, without clattering so much as a plate or spoon, and, piling them compactly on a tray, was about to leave the room, when Mr. Dyceworthy called to her, "Ulrika!"
"Sir?"
"Did you ever see a thing like this before?" and he held up the crucifix to her gaze.
The woman shuddered, and her dull eyes lit up with a sudden terror.
"It is the witch's charm!" she muttered thickly, while her pale face grew yet paler. "Burn it, sir!—burn it, and the power will leave her."
Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indulgently. "My good woman, you mistake," he said suavely. "Your zeal for the true gospel leads you into error. There are thousands of misguided persons who worship such a thing as this. It is often all of our dear Lord they know. Sad, very sad! But still, though they, alas! are not of the elect, and are plainly doomed to perdition,—they are not precisely what are termed witches, Ulrika."
"She is," replied the woman with a sort of ferocity; "and, if I had my way, I would tell her so to her face, and see what would happen to her then!"
"Tut, tut!" remarked Mr. Dyceworthy amiably. "The days of witchcraft are past. You show some little ignorance, Ulrika. You are not acquainted with the great advancement of recent learning."
"Maybe, maybe," and Ulrika turned to go; but she muttered sullenly as she went, "There be them that know and could tell, and them that will have her yet."