Part 19 (1/2)

He leaned over her with a smile, smoothing her wrists lightly, with slow, downward touches, and whispering in her ear. The sound of the singing below came through the door ajar, and the child listened to her visitor as if he were telling her a wonderful tale.

”Open the window,” he said, after a while, to the mother, pulling the sheet softly over the child's shoulders, ”the air to-night is full of silver threads which draw away the fever.”

Then he threw the black draught out of the window. And the child, watching him, laughed a little.

”It is the wrong medicine,” said he. ”Bring me paper and pen.”

He wrote by the light of the flickering candle, hiding the words with his other hand: _Fortune favour Faith_.

Then he slipped the crooked sixpence into the paper, folded it carefully, tucking the ends one into the other, and marked it with a cross.

”Hold it tight,” he said to the child, closing the fingers of her right hand upon the little packet. ”It will let you into the Garden of Good Dreams. And now your carriage is ready, and now your horses are trotting, gently, gently, quickly, softly along the white moon-road to the Land of Nod. Will you go--are you going--are you gone?”

Her eyelids drooped and fell, and she turned on her right side with a sigh, thrusting her brown fist under the pillow. Harcourt drew the mother to the door.

”Hush,” he whispered; ”leave the window wide. Your Faith holds an ancient potent charm, thousands of years old, better than all medicines. Do not speak of it to any one. If you open it, you will lose it. Let her sleep with it so, and bring it me on the morrow.”

In the morning, when the landlord had served breakfast with his own hands, Harcourt called boldly for the bill; and Barton stared at him, but the landlord was confused.

”My wife,” he stammered--”you must excuse her, gentlemen, nothing will do but she must speak with you herself about the reckoning. I'll go call her.”

She came with a wonder of gladness in her face, and the little girl clinging to a fold of her mother's dress by the left hand and pressing the other brown fist close to her neck.

”You see,” said the mother. ”She is well! Run, Faith, and kiss the gentleman's hand. Oh, sir, there can be no talk of payment between us--we are deep in your debt; but if my child might keep this ancient potent charm?”

The question hung in her voice. Harcourt delayed a moment, as if in doubt, before he answered, smiling:

”I am loath to part from it,” he said at last, ”but since she has proved it, let her keep it and believe in it for good--never for evil.

Come, little Faith, kiss me good-bye--no, not on the hand!”

When they were alone together, Barton turned upon his companion with reproachful looks.

”What is this charm?” he asked.

”A secret,” answered the other curtly.

”I like it not,” said Barton, shaking his head; ”you go too far, Jack.

You put a deception on these simple folk.”

”Who knows?” laughed Harcourt. ”At least I have done them no harm. We leave them happy and ride on. How far to your nearest cousin?”

II

”The next case is a strange one,” said Sir Richard Barton, Justice of the Peace, sitting on the bench by his friend, the famous Judge who was holding court for Market Farborough.

”How is it strange?” asked the Judge, whose face showed ruddy and strong beneath his white wig.

”It is an accusation of witchcraft,” answered Sir Richard, ”and that is a serious thing in these days. Yet it seems the woman has a good heart and harms n.o.body.”