“If you don’t send for Willox, sir, you’ll lose every nout beast in your aught,” said the minister’s hind.
“Saunders,” replied the minister, “although I have no faith in any such wicked and abominable superstitions as would gift Mr. MacGregor with superhuman powers, I am willing enough to give him credit for more than ordinary shrewdness and sagacity as a mere man. You may, therefore, send for him with my compliments, as I believe that he is more likely than any one to discover the natural cause of these my losses.”
Willox came accordingly; and after the usual salutations he took the parson aside.
“Between you and me, Mr. Grant,” said he, “there is no use in my making any pretence of witchcraft. But you know we may find out the cause of the death of your cattle for all that. Your losses, I think, always happen at or about this particular season of the year?”
“They do,” replied the parson.
“Come, then, let you and me take a quiet walk together over your farm.”
Mr. Grant and Willox patiently perambulated the farm, and especially the cattle-pastures for some hours together, Willox all the while throwing his sharp eyes around him in every direction, until they came to a hollow place where the warlock suddenly stopped.
“Here is the cause of the evil,” said Willox, at once pointing to a certain plant which grew there, and nowhere else in the neighbourhood. “If you will only take care that your man Saunders never allows your cattle to get into this hollow until the flower of that plant is withered and gone, you will find that you will never again lose a single beast in the same way.”
I need not tell you, gentlemen, that Mr. Grant took care that the warlock’s advice was strictly followed; and the result was perfectly satisfactory.
Clifford.—A most invaluable wizard! I wonder whether one might hold a consultation with him on the mysteries of fly-fishing.