n a
narrow wet valley among woodlands like this, must expect ague."

"I tell you she gave it to me. I tell you she has overlooked me; and
all this doctor's stuff is no use, unless you can say a charm as will
undo her devil's work."

"My good friend," said the Vicar, "you should banish such fancies from
your mind, for you are in a serious position, and ought not to die in
enmity with anyone."

"Not die in enmity with her? I'd never forgive her till she took off
the spell."

"Whom do you mean?" asked the Vicar.

"Why, that infernal witch, Madge, that lives with old Hawker," said the
man excitedly. "That's who I mean!"

"Why, what injury has she done you?"

"Bewitched me, I tell you! Given me these shaking fits. She told me she
would, when I left; and so she has, to prevent my speaking. I might a
spoke out anytime this year, only the old man kept me quiet with money;
but now it's nigh too late!"

"What might you have spoken about?" asked the Vicar.

"Well, I'll just relate the matter to you," said the man, speaking fast
and thick, "and I'll speak the truth. A twelvemonth agone, this Madge
and me had a fierce quarrel, and I miscalled her awful, and told her of
some things she wasn't aware I knew of; and then she said, 'If ever a
word of that escapes your lips, I'll put such a spell on ye that your
bones shall shake apart.' Then I says, if you do, your bastard son
shall swing."

"Who do you mean by her bastard son?"

"Young George Hawker. He is not the son of old Mrs. Hawker! Madge was
brought to bed of him a fortnight before her mistress; and when she
bore a still-born child, old Hawker and I buried it in the wood, and we
gave Madge's child to Mrs. Hawker, who never knew the difference before
she died."

"On the word of a dying man, is that true?" demanded the Vicar.

"On the word of a dying man that's true, and this also. I says to
Madge, 'Your boy shall swing, for I know enough to hang him.' And she
said, 'Where are your proofs?' and I--O Lord! O Lord! she's at me
again."

He sank down again in a paroxysm of shivering, and they got no more
from him. Enough there was, however, to make the Vicar a very silent
and thoughtful man, as he sat watching the sick man in the close
stifling room.

"You had better go home, Vicar," said the Doctor; "you will make
yourself ill staying here. I do not expect another lucid interval."

"No," said the Vicar, "I feel it my duty to stay longer. For my own
sake too. What