At nine years old, Christian was a little rag of a girl; a rag, but imbued with the spirit of the rag that is nailed to the mast, and flaunts, unconquered, until it is shot away.  She had a small head, round and brown as a hazel-nut, and a thick mop of fine, bright hair, rebellious like herself, of the sort that goes with an ardent personality, waved and curled over her little poll, and generally ended the day in a tangle only less intricate than can be achieved by a skein of silk.  Of her small oval face, people were accustomed to say it was all eyes, an unoriginal summarising, but one that forced itself inevitably upon those who met Christian’s eyes, clear and shining, of the pale brown that the sun knows how to waken in a shallow pool in a hill-stream, set in a dark fringe of lashes that were like the rushes round the pool.  Before she could speak, it was told of her eyes that they would quietly follow some visitor, invisible to others, but obvious to her.  Occasionally, after the mysterious power of speech—­that is almost as mysterious as the power of reading—­had come to her, she had scared the nursery by broken conversation with viewless confederates, defined by the nursery-maid as “quare turns that’d take her, the Lord save us!” and by her mother, as “something that she will outgrow, and the less said about it the better, darlings.  Remember, she is the youngest, and you must all be very wise and kind—­” (a formula that took no heed of punctuation, and was practically invariable).

But as Christian grew older the confederates withdrew, either that, or the protecting shell of reserve that guards the growth of individuality, interposed, and her dealings with things unseen ceased to attract the attention of her elders.  It was John, her senior by two years, who preserved an interest, of an inquisitorial sort, in what he had decided to call the Troops of Midian.  There was a sacerdotal turn about John.  He had early decided upon the Church as his vocation, and only hesitated between the roles of Primate of Ireland and Pope of Rome.  He had something of the poet and enthusiast about him, and something also of the bully, and it was quite possible that he might do creditably in either position, but at this stage of his development his ecclesiastical proclivities chiefly displayed themselves in a dramatic study, founded upon that well-known Lenten hymn that puts a succession of searching enquiries, of a personal character, to a typical Christian.  A missionary lecture on West Africa had supplied some useful hints as to the treatment of witches, and Christian’s name, and the occult powers with which she was credited, had indicated her as heroine of the piece.