we prefer them upside down. Talking
constantly, we reel blindfold through eternity, and perhaps if we are
lucky, once or twice in a score of lives, the blindfolding handkerchief
slips, and we wriggle one eye free, and see gods like trees walking. By
Jove, that gives us enough to talk about for two or three lives! Witches
and wizards are not blinded by having a Point of View. They just look,
and are very much surprised and interested.

All witches and wizards are born strangely and die violently. They are
descended always from old mysterious breeds, from women who wrought
domestic magic and perished for its sake, and from men who wrought other
magic among lost causes and wars without gain, and fell and died, still
surprised, still interested, with their faces among flowers. All men who
die so are not wizards, nor are all martyred and adventuring women
witches, but all such bring a potential strain of magic into their line.

"A witch," said Sarah Brown. "Of course. I have been trying to remember
what broomsticks reminded me of. A witch, of course. I have always
wished to be friends with a witch."

The witch was unaware that the proper answer to this was: "Oh, my Dear,
_do_ let's. Do you know I had quite a _crush_ on you from the first
minute." She did not answer at all, and Sarah Brown, who was tired of
proper answers, was not sorry. Nevertheless the pause seemed a little
empty, so she filled it herself, saying pedantically: "Of course I don't
believe friendship is an end in itself. Only a means to an end."

"I don't know what you mean," said the witch, after wrestling
conscientiously with this remark for a minute. "Do tell me--do you know
yourself, or are you just saying it to see what it means?"

Sarah Brown was obviously damped by this, and the witch added kindly: "I
bet you twopence you don't know what this place is."

"A shop," said Sarah Brown, who was sitting on the counter.

"It is a sort of convent and monastery mixed," replied the witch. "I am
connected with it officially. I undertook to manage it, yet I forget
what the proper word for me is. Not undertaker, is it?"

"Superintendent or secretary," suggested Sarah Brown moodily.

"Superintendent, I think," said the witch. "At least I know Peony calls
me Soup. Do you live alone?"

"Yes."

"Then you ought to live here. This is the only place in the world of its
kind. The name of this house is Living Alone. I'll read you the
prospectus."

She fell sudd