keep up her courage. Her heart beat hard as they took
their way across to the island. The island is really no island at all,
but a lonely, lovely portion of Still Harbor, between Benny's home and
Grandma Potter's, which by means of a small inlet and a little creek,
and one watery thing and another, is so nearly surrounded by water as to
feel justified in calling itself an island. They crossed over the little
bridge that took them to this would-be island, and following an almost
imperceptible wood path, came within sight of the Witch's hut. It was a
deserted, useless, wood-chopper's hut, which the mysterious creature
whom the children called a witch had taken possession of not long
before. Here Fanny drew back. "O Benny, I _am_ afraid," said she.

"Humph! she can't hurt you in the _daytime_," said Benny. "She ain't no
different in the daytime from any other old woman. It's only nights she
is a witch."

Fanny allowed herself to be led a few steps further, and then drew back
again. "O Benny," said she, "there's her broomstick! there it is, right
outside o' the door--and O Benny, Benny, there's her old black cat!"

"Wal, what on it, hey? What on it?" creaked a dreadful voice close
behind them. Then, indeed, Fanny shrieked and tried to run, but Benny's
hand held her fast. She hid her face against Benny's arm and sobbed.

It was the old Witch her very self. She looked at them out of her
glittering eyes--O how she did look at them!--with her head drooped
until her chin rested on her chest. This seemed to bring the arrows of
her eyes to bear upon the enemy with greater force and precision.

"There ain't any law ag'in my having a _cat_ and a _broomstick_, is
there?" she asked in a voice like the cawing of a crow, bringing her
staff down with a thump at the words "cat" and "broomstick." "What are
you skeered of?"

"Why, you're queer, you know," said Benny desperately.

"Queer, _queer_?" piped the Witch; and then she laughed, or had a
dreadful convulsion, Benny couldn't tell which, ending in a long,
gurgling "Hoo-oo-oo!" on a very high key. "Now, s'pose you tell me what
is 't makes me queer," said she, sitting down on a log and extracting
from the rags on her bosom a pipe, which she prepared to smoke.

"Whew!" whistled Benny, "'twould take me from now till Christmas; I'd
rather you'd tell me."

The crone lighted her pipe. The match flaring upon her wrinkled,
copper-colored face and its gaunt features made her hideous. Poo