“Will I?—­will I?—­oh!” she replied, “may you never know misery for offering it!  Oh, bring me something—­some refreshment—­some food—­for I’m dying with hunger.”

Mrs. Sullivan, who, with all her superstition, was remarkable for charity and benevolence, immediately placed food and drink before her, which the stranger absolutely devoured—­taking care occasionally to secrete under the protuberance which appeared behind her neck, a portion of what she ate.  This, however, she did, not by stealth, but openly; merely taking means to prevent the concealed thing, from being, by any possible accident discovered.

When the craving of hunger was satisfied, she appeared to suffer less from the persecution of her tormentor than, before; whether it was, as Mrs. Sullivan thought, that the food with which she plied it, appeased in some degree its irritability, or lessened that of the stranger, it was difficult to say; at all events, she became more composed; her eyes resumed somewhat of a natural expression; each sharp ferocious glare, which shot, from them! with such intense and rapid flashes, partially disappeared; her knit brows dilated, and part of a forehead, which had once been capacious and handsome, lost the contractions which deformed it by deep wrinkles.  Altogether the change was evident, and very-much relieved Mrs. Sullivan, who could not avoid observing it.

“It’s not that I care much about it, if you’d think it not right o’ me, but it’s odd enough for you to keep the lower part of your face muffled up in that black cloth, an’ then your forehead, too, is covered down on your face a bit?  If they’re part of the bargain,”—­and she shuddered at the thought—­“between you an’ anything that’s not good—­hem!—­I think you’d do well to throw thim off o’ you, an’ turn to thim that can protect you from everything that’s bad.  Now a scapular would keep all the divils in hell from one; an’ if you’d”—­

On looking at the stranger she hesitated, for the wild expression of her eyes began to return.

“Don’t begin my punishment again,” replied the woman; “make no allus—­don’t make mention in my presence of anything that’s good.  Husht,—­husht,—­it’s beginning—­easy now—­easy!  No,” said she, “I came to tell you, that only for my breakin’ a vow I made to this thing upon me, I’d be happy instead of miserable with it.  I say, it’s a good thing to have, if the person will use this bottle,” she added, producing one, “as I will direct them.”

“I wouldn’t wish, for my part,” replied Mrs. Sullivan, “to have anything to do wid it—­neither act nor part;” and she crossed herself devoutly, on contemplating such an unholy alliance as that at which her companion hinted.

“Mary Sullivan,” replied the other, “I can put good fortune and happiness in the way of you and yours.  It is for you the good is intended; if you don’t get both, no other can,” and her eyes kindled as she spoke, like those of the Pythoness in the moment of inspiration.