had been brushed by their feet when they descended upon a cart-track,
beside which stood the house of the man they sought.

He did not profess his remedial practices openly, or care anything about
their continuance, his direct interests being those of a dealer in furze,
turf, 'sharp sand,' and other local products. Indeed, he affected not to
believe largely in his own powers, and when warts that had been shown him
for cure miraculously disappeared--which it must be owned they infallibly
did--he would say lightly, 'O, I only drink a glass of grog upon
'em--perhaps it's all chance,' and immediately turn the subject.

He was at home when they arrived, having in fact seen them descending
into his valley. He was a gray-bearded man, with a reddish face, and he
looked singularly at Rhoda the first moment he beheld her. Mrs. Lodge
told him her errand; and then with words of self-disparagement he
examined her arm.

'Medicine can't cure it,' he said promptly. ''Tis the work of an enemy.'

Rhoda shrank into herself, and drew back.

'An enemy? What enemy?' asked Mrs. Lodge.

He shook his head. 'That's best known to yourself,' he said. 'If you
like, I can show the person to you, though I shall not myself know who it
is. I can do no more; and don't wish to do that.'

She pressed him; on which he told Rhoda to wait outside where she stood,
and took Mrs. Lodge into the room. It opened immediately from the door;
and, as the latter remained ajar, Rhoda Brook could see the proceedings