of revenge. By
that in her eyes (and as she thought, in the eyes of all Dryhope) he
had ill-requited her, put her to unthinkable shame. She saw herself
with her favours of person and power passed over for a nameless,
haunted, dumb thing, a stray from some other world into a world of
men, women, and the children they rear to follow them. She scorned
Mabilla for flinching so much, she scorned her for not flinching more.
That Mabilla could be desirable to Andrew King made her scoff; that
Andrew King should not know her dangerous kept her awake at night.

For the world seemed to her a fearful place since Mabilla had been
brought into it. There were signs everywhere. That summer it thundered
out of a clear sky. Once in the early morning she had seen a bright
light above the sun--a mock sun which shone more fiercely than a fire
in daylight. She heard wild voices singing; on still days she saw the
trees in Knapp Forest bent to a furious wind. When Mabilla crept up
the fell on noiseless feet to spy for Andrew King, Bessie Prawle heard
the bents hiss and crackle under her, as if she set them afire.

Next summer, too, there were portents. There was a great drought, so
great that Dryhope burn ran dry, and water had to be fetched from a
distance for the sheep. There were heather fires in many places; smut
got into the oats, and a plague of caterpillars attacked the trees so
that in July they were leafless, and there was no shade. There was no
pasture for the kine, which grew lean and languid. Their bones stuck
out through their skin; they moaned as they lay on the parched earth,
and had not strength enough to swish at the clouds of flies. They had
sores upon them, which festered and spread. If Mabilla, the nameless
wife, was not responsible for this, who could be? Perhaps Heaven was
offended with Dryhope on account of Andrew King's impiety. Bessie
believed that Mabilla was a witch.

She followed the girl about, spying on everything she did. Once, at
least, she came upon her lying in the heather. She was plaiting rushes
together into a belt, and Bessie thought she was weaving a spell and
sprang upon her. The girl cowered, very white, and Bessie Prawle, her
heart on fire, gave tongue to all her bitter thoughts. The witch-wife,
fairy-wife, child or whatever she was seemed to wither as a flower in
a hot wind. Bessie Prawle towered above her in her strength, and
gained invective with every fierce breath she took. Her blue eyes
burned