“You mean a philter?”

“I believe that is what it is called, sir.”

“Well, madam, you shall be supplied with a philter that never fails, on the payment ol twenty-one shillings.  This, philter, madam, will not only make him fond of you before marriage, but will secure his affections during life, increasing them day by day, so that every month of your lives will be a delicious honeymoon.  There is another bottle at the same price; it may not, indeed, be necessary for you, but I can assure you that it has made many families happy where there had been previously but little prospect of happiness; the price is the same—­twenty-one shillings.”

Up went the spectral fan again, and out came the forty-two shillings, and, with a formal courtesy, the venerable old maid walked away with the two bottles of aqua pura in her pocket.

Now came the test for the conjurer’s knowledge—­the sharp and unexpected trial of his skill and sagacity.  After the old maid had taken her leave, possessed of the two bottles, a middle-aged, large-sized woman walked in, and, after making a low courtesy, sat down as she had been desired.  The conjurer glanced keenly at her, and something like a smile might be seen to settle upon his features; it was so slight, however, that the good woman did not notice it.

“Pray, what’s the object of your visit to me, may I ask?”

“My husband, sir—­he runn’d away from me, sure.”

“Small blame to him,” replied the conjurer.  “If I had such a wife I would not remain a single hour in her company.”

“And is that the tratement you give a heart-broken and desarted crature like me?”

“Come, what made him run away from you?”

“In regard, sir, of a dislike he took to me.”

“That was a proof that the man had some taste.”

“Ay, but why hadn’t he that taste afore he married me?”

“It was very well that he had it afterwards—­better late than never.”

“I want you to tell me where he is.”

“What family have you?”

“Seven small childre that’s now fatherless, I may say.”

“What kind of a man was your husband?”

“Why, indeed, as handsome a vagabone as you’d see in a day’s travellin’.”

“Mention his name; I can tell you nothing till I hear it.”

“He’s called Rantin’ Rody, the thief, and a great schamer he is among the girls.”

“Ranting Rody—­let me see,” and here he looked very solemnly into his book—­“yes; I see—­a halter.  My good woman, you had better not inquire after him; he was born to be hanged.”

“But when will that happen, sir?”

“Your fate and his are so closely united, that, whenever he swings, you will swing.  You will both hang together from the same gallows; so that, in point of fact, you need not give yourself much trouble about the time of his suspension, because I see it written here in the book of fate, that the same hangman who swings you off, will swing him off at the same moment.  You’ll ’lie lovingly together; and when he puts his tongue out at those who will attend his execution, so will you; and when he dances his last jig in their presence, so will you.  Are you now satisfied?”