witches, Ulrika."

"SHE is," replied the woman with a sort of ferocity;
"and, if I had my way, I would tell her so to her face, and see what
would happen to her then!"

"Tut, tut!" remarked Mr. Dyceworthy amiably. "The days of witchcraft
are past. You show some little ignorance, Ulrika. You are not
acquainted with the great advancement of recent learning."

"Maybe, maybe," and Ulrika turned to go; but she muttered sullenly
as she went, "There be them that know and could tell, and them that
will have her yet."

She shut the door behind her with a sharp clang, and, left to
himself, Mr. Dyceworthy again smiled--such a benignant, fatherly
smile! He then walked to the window and looked out. It was past
seven o'clock, an hour that elsewhere would have been considered
evening, but in Bosekop at that season it still seemed afternoon.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and in the minister's front garden
the roses were all wide awake. A soft moisture glittered on every
tiny leaf and blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of
sweet violets scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call
of the cuckoo pierced the air with a subdued, far-off shrillness.

Prom his position Mr. Dyceworthy could catch a glimpse through the
trees of the principal thoroughfare of Bosekop--a small, primitive
street enough, of little low houses, which, though unpretending from
without, were roomy and comfortable within. The distant, cool