unmistakable personal malice, was mixed up with
these accusations, no one can now tell. The dire
statistics of this time tell us that fifty-five
escaped death by confessing themselves guilty,
one hundred and fifty were in prison, more than
two hundred accused, and upwards of twenty
suffered death, among whom was the minister
I have called Nolan, who was traditionally
esteemed to have suffered through hatred of his
co-pastor. One old man, scorning the accusation,
and refusing to plead at his trial, was,
according to the law, pressed to death for his
contumacy. Nay, even dogs were accused of witch-
craft, suffered the penalties of the law, and are
recorded among the subjects of capital punishment.
One young man found means to effect
his mother's escape from confinement, fled with
her on horseback, and secreted her in the Blueberry
Swamp, not far from Taplay's Brook, in
the Great Pasture; he concealed her here in a
wigwam which he built for her shelter, provided
her with food and clothing, and comforted and
sustained her until after the delusion had passed
away. The poor creature must, however, have
suffered dreadfully, for one of her arms was
fractured in the all but desperate effort of
getting her out of prison.

But there was no one to try and save Lois.
Grace Hickson would fain have ignored her
altogether. Such a taint did witchcraft bring upon
a whole family, that generations of blameless life
was not at that day esteemed sufficient to wash
it out. Besides, you must remember that Grace,
along with most people of her time, believed
most firmly in the reality of the crime of witchcraft.
Poor, forsaken Lois, believed in it herself,
and it added to her terror, for the gaoler,
in an unusually communicative mood, told her
that nearly every cell was now full of witches;
and it was possible he might have to put one, if
more came, in with her. Lois knew that she
was no witch herself; but not the less did
she believe that the crime was abroad, and
largely shared in by evil-minded persons who
had chosen to give up their souls to Satan; and
she shuddered with terror at what the gaoler
said, and would have asked him to spare her this
companionship if it were possible. But somehow
her senses were leaving her, and she could
not remember the right words in which to form
her request, until he had left the place.

The only person who yearned after Lois—who
would have befriended her if he could—was
Manasseh: poor, mad Manasseh. But he was so
wild and outrageous in his talk, that it was all
his mother could do to keep his state concealed
from public observation. She had for this
purpose given him a sleeping potion; and, while he
lay heavy and inert under the influence of the
poppy-tea, his mother bound him with cords to
the heavy, antique bed in which he slept. She
looked broken-hearted while she did this office,
and thus acknowledged the degradationof her first-
born—him of whom she had ever been so proud.

Late that evening Grace Hickson stood in
Lois's cell, hooded and cloaked up to her eyes.
Lois was sitting quite still, playing idly with a
bit of string one of the magistrates had dropped
out of his pocket that morning. Her aunt was
standing by her for an instant or two in silence,
before Lois seemed aware of her presence.
Suddenly she looked up, and uttered a little cry,
shrinking away from the dark figure. Then, as
if her cry had loosened Grace's tongue, she began:

"Lois Barclay, did I ever do you any harm?"
Grace did not know how often her want of
loving kindness had pierced the tender heart of
the stranger under her roof; nor did Lois
remember it against her now. Instead, Lois's
memory was filled with grateful thoughts of how
much that might have been left undone, by a less
conscientious person, her aunt had done for her,
and she half stretched out her arms as to a friend
in that desolate place, as she answered,

"Oh no, no! you were very good! very
kind!"

But Grace stood immovable.

"I did you no harm, although I never rightly
knew why you came to us."

"I was sent by my mother on her death-bed,"
moaned Lois, covering her face. It grew darker
every instant. Her aunt stood, still and silent.

"Did any of mine ever wrong you?" she
asked, after a time.

"No, no; never, till Prudence said—Oh,
aunt, do you think I am a witch?" And now
Lois was standing up, holding by Grace's cloak,
and trying to read her face. Grace drew herself,
ever so little, away from the girl, whom she
dreaded, and yet sought to propitiate.

"Wiser than I, godlier than I, have said it.
But, oh, Lois, Lois! he was my first-born.
Loose him from the demon, for the sake of Him
whose name I dare not name in this terrible
building, filled with them who have renounced
the hopes of their baptism; loose Manasseh
from his awful state, if ever I or mine did you a
kindness!"

"You ask me for Christ's sake," said Lois.
"I can name that holy name—for oh, aunt!
indeed, and in holy truth, I am no witch; and
yet I am to die—to be hanged! Aunt, do not
let them kill me! I am so young, and I never
did any one any harm that I know of."

"Hush! for very shame! This afternoon I
have bound my first-born with strong cords, to
keep him from doing himself or us a mischief—
he is so frenzied. Lois Barclay, look here!"
and Grace knelt down at her niece's feet, and
joined her hands as if in prayer—"I am a proud
woman, God forgive me! and I never thought
to kneel to any save to Him. And now I kneel
at your feet, to pray you to release my children,
more especially my son Manasseh, from the
spells you have put upon them. Lois, hearken
to me, and I will pray to the Almighty for you,
if yet there may be mercy."

"I cannot do it; I never did you or yours
any wrong. How can I undo it? How can I?"
And she wrung her hands in intensity of
conviction of the inutility of aught she could do.

Here Grace got up, slowly, stiffly, and sternly.
She stood aloof from the chained girl in the
remote corner of the prison cell near the door,