ten outside her door at night, believed that she
held converse with some spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning
for herself the dreadful reputation of a witch.

Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her,
was her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he
was ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his
management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had then
been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals. Whatever this man
did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled
with blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than
prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes
twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.

Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven,
one of the guardians of the young Squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest,
bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward's
property; and, in consequence, he brought down four or five gentlemen,
of his friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall. From all
accounts, they roystered and spent pretty freely. I never heard any of
their names but one, and that was Squire Gisborne's. He was hardly a
middle-aged man then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he
had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him some service. He was a
daring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and fearless, and
one who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his fits of
ill-temper beside, when he would spare neither man nor beast.
Otherwise, those who knew him well, used to say he had a good heart,
when he was neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way vexed. He had
altered much when I came to know him.

One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had had none, and was in a
black humour accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned
out of the wood by Bridget's cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to
vent his spleen upon some living creature, Mr. Gisborne took his gun,
and fired--he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed that
unlucky shot. He hit Mignon; and at the creature's sudden cry, Bridget
came out, and saw at a glance what had been done. She took Mignon up in
her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at h