Agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, as I have said; but self-conceit will go far to generate every other vice under the sun.  Vanity, which is a form of self-conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the deepest feeling in the heart of a horrible murderess.

That morning, at breakfast, her mother had stinted her in milk—­just a little—­that she might have enough to make some milk-porridge for their dinner.  Agnes did not mind it at the time, but when she saw the milk now given to a beggar, as she called the wise woman—­though, surely, one might ask a draught of water, and accept a draught of milk, without being a beggar in any such sense as Agnes’s contemptuous use of the word implied—­a cloud came upon her forehead, and a double vertical wrinkle settled over her nose.  The wise woman saw it, for all her business was with Agnes though she little knew it, and, rising, went and offered the cup to the child, where she sat with her knitting in a corner.  Agnes looked at it, did not want it, was inclined to refuse it from a beggar, but thinking it would show her consequence to assert her rights, took it and drank it up.  For whoever is possessed by a devil, judges with the mind of that devil; and hence Agnes was guilty of such a meanness as many who are themselves capable of something just as bad will consider incredible.

The wise woman waited till she had finished it—­then, looking into the empty cup, said: 

“You might have given me back as much as you had no claim upon!”

Agnes turned away and made no answer—­far less from shame than indignation.

The wise woman looked at the mother.

“You should not have offered it to her if you did not mean her to have it,” said the mother, siding with the devil in her child against the wise woman and her child too.  Some foolish people think they take another’s part when they take the part he takes.

The wise woman said nothing, but fixed her eyes upon her, and soon the mother hid her face in her apron weeping.  Then she turned again to Agnes, who had never looked round but sat with her back to both, and suddenly lapped her in the folds of her cloak.  When the mother again lifted her eyes, she had vanished.

Never supposing she had carried away her child, but uncomfortable because of what she had said to the poor woman, the mother went to the door, and called after her as she toiled slowly up the hill.  But she never turned her head; and the mother went back into her cottage.

The wise woman walked close past the shepherd and his dogs, and through the midst of his flock of sheep.  The shepherd wondered where she could be going—­right up the hill.  There was something strange about her too, he thought; and he followed her with his eyes as she went up and up.

It was near sunset, and as the sun went down, a gray cloud settted on the top of the mountain, which his last rays turned into a rosy gold.  Straight into this cloud the shepherd saw the woman hold her pace, and in it she vanished.  He little imagined that his child was under her cloak.