She was really a fine girl.  Her dress showed rather more effort at fashion than was quite in keeping with her very rural surroundings, and her speech and accent betrayed a childhood spent among uneducated folk and only overlaid by more recent schooling.  Her face had the best parts of beauty:  health and good sense were written there, also flashes of humour and an habitual sweet seriousness.  She had chanced to be at the gate gathering flowers.  Her reception of the student was frank, and yet there was just a touch of blushing dignity about it which suggested that she took a special interest in him.  The student also, it would appear, took an interest in her, for, on their way to the house, he made a variety of remarks upon the weather which proved that he was a little excited and unable to observe that he was talking nonsense.

In a little while the family were gathered round the tea-table.  The girl, Miss Torrance by name, sat at the head of the table.  Her father was a banker and insurance agent.  He sat opposite his eldest daughter and did the honours of the meal with the utmost hospitality, yet with reserve of manner caused by his evident consciousness that his grammar and manners were not equal to those of his children and their guest.  There were several daughters and two sons younger than Miss Torrance.  They talked with vivacity.

The conversation soon turned upon the fact that the abundant supply of cream to which the family were accustomed was not forthcoming.  Strawberries were being served with the tea; some sort of cold pudding was also on the table; and all this to be eaten without cream,—­these young people might have been asked to go without their supper, so indignant they were.

Now, Mr. Torrance had been decorously trying to talk of the young minister’s last sermon and of the affairs of the small Scotch church of which he was an elder, and Miss Torrance was ably seconding his effort by comparing the sentiments of the sermon to a recent magazine article, but against her will she was forced to attend to the young people’s clamour about the cream.

It seemed that Trilium, the cow, had recently refused to give her milk.  Mary Torrance was about eighteen; she suddenly gave it as her opinion that Trilium was bewitched; there was no other explanation, she said, no other possible explanation of Trilium’s extraordinary conduct.

A flush mounted Miss Torrance’s face; she frowned at her sister when the student was not looking.

’It’s wonderful, the amount of witchcraft we have about here, Mr. Howitt,’ said the master of the house tentatively to the minister.

Howitt had taken Mary’s words in jest.  He gave his smooth-shaven face the twist that with him always expressed ideas wonderful or grotesque.  It was a strong, thin face, full of intelligence.

‘I never could have conceived anything like it,’ said he.  ’I come across witch tales here, there, everywhere; and the marvellous thing is, some of the people really seem to believe them.’