her head tied up in a turban, and a shawl about her shoulders.

"Did you git runned over?" she asked, peering down at him anxiously.

Sandy tried to explain, but it was all the old mixture of soap and
microscopes and never being able to speak to her. He knew he was
talking at random, but he could not say the things he thought.

"Where'd you come from, boy?"

"Curragh Chase, Limerick," murmured Sandy.

"'Fore de Lawd, he's done been cunjered!" cried the old woman, aghast.
"I'll git it outen of you, chile. You jus' come home wif yer Aunt
Melvy; she'll take keer of you. Put yer arm on my shoulder; dat's
right. Don't you mind where you gwine at. I got yer bundle. It ain't
fur. Hit's dat little house a-hangin' on de side of de hill. Dey calls
it 'Who'd 'a' Thought It,' 'ca'se you nebber would 'a' thought of
puttin' a house dere. Dat's right; lean on yer mammy. I'll git dem old
cunjers outen you."

Thus encouraged and supported, Sandy stumbled on through the dark, up
a hillside that seemed never to end, across a bridge, then into a tiny
log cabin, where he dropped exhausted.

Off and on during the night he knew that there was a fire in the room,
and that strange things were happening to him. But it was all so queer
and unnatural that he did not know where the dreams left off and the
real began. He was vaguely conscious of his left foot being tied to
the right bedpost, of a lock of his hair being cut off and burned on