We were all in the doleful dumps—at least, all we "young fry" were, and even the grown-ups were sorry and to take an interest in our troubles. Pat, our own, dear, Paddy, was sick again—very, very sick.  
On Friday he moped and refused his saucer of new milk at milking time. The next morning he stretched himself down on the platform by Uncle Roger's back door, laid his head on his black paws, and refused to take any notice of anything or anybody. In vain we stroked and and brought him tidbits. Only when the Story Girl him did he give one little mew, as if to ask piteously why she could not do something for him. At that Cecily and Felicity and Sara Ray all began crying, and we boys felt choky. Indeed, I caught Peter behind Aunt Olivia's dairy later in the day, and if ever a boy had been crying I that boy was Peter. Nor did he deny it when I taxed him with it, but he would not give in that he was crying about Paddy. Nonsense!
 
"What were you crying for, then?" I said.
 
"I'm crying because—because my Aunt Jane is dead," said Peter .
 
"But your Aunt Jane died two years ago," I said skeptically.
 
"Well, ain't that all the more reason for crying?" retorted Peter. "I've had to do without her for two years, and that's worse than if it had just been a few days."
 
"I believe you were crying because Pat is so sick," I said firmly.
 
"As if I'd cry about a cat!" Peter. And he marched off whistling.
 
Of course we had tried the lard and powder treatment again, Pat's paws and sides liberally. But to our dismay, Pat made no effort to lick it off.
 
"I tell you he's a sick cat," said Peter darkly. "When a cat don't care what he looks like he's pretty far gone."
 
"If we only knew what was the matter with him we might do something," the Story Girl, stroking her poor pet's unresponsive head.
 
"I could tell you what's the matter with him, but you'd only laugh at me," said Peter.
 
We all looked at him.
 
"Peter Craig, what do you mean?" asked Felicity.
 
"'Zackly what I say."
 
"Then, if you know what is the matter with Paddy, tell us," commanded the Story Girl, up. She said it quietly; but Peter obeyed. I think he would have obeyed if she, in that tone and with those eyes, had ordered him to cast himself into the depths of the sea. I know I should.
 
"He's BEWITCHED—that's what's the matter with him," said Peter, half defiantly, half shamefacedly.
 
"Bewitched? Nonsense!"
 
"There now, what did I tell you?" complained Peter.
 
The Story Girl looked at Peter, at the rest of us, and then at poor Pat.
 
"How could he be bewitched?" she asked , "and who could bewitch him?"
 
"I don't know HOW he was bewitched," said Peter. "I'd have to be a witch myself to know that. But Bowen bewitched him."
 
"Nonsense!" said the Story Girl again.
 
"All right," said Peter. "You don't have to believe me."
 
"If Peg Bowen could bewitch anything—and I don't believe she could—why should she bewitch Pat?" asked the Story Girl. "Everybody here and at Uncle Alec's is always kind to her."
 
"I'll tell you why," said Peter. "Thursday afternoon, when you fellows were all in school, Peg Bowen came here. Your Aunt Olivia gave her a lunch—a good one. You may laugh at the notion of Peg being a witch, but I notice your folks are always awful good to her when she comes, and awful careful never to offend her."
 
"Aunt Olivia would be good to any poor creature, and so would mother," said Felicity. "And of course nobody wants to offend Peg, because she is spiteful, and she once set fire to a man's barn in Markdale when he offended her. But she isn't a witch—that's ridiculous."
 
"All right. But wait till I tell you. When Peg Bowen was leaving Pat stretched out on the steps. She tramped on his tail. You know Pat doesn't like to have his tail with. He himself round and clawed her bare foot. If you'd just seen the look she gave him you'd know whether she was a witch or not. And she went off down the lane, muttering and throwing her hands round, just like she did in Lem Hill's cow pasture. She put a spell on Pat, that's what she did. He was sick the next morning."
 
We looked at each other in , silence. We were only children—and we believed that there had been such things as witches once upon a time—and Peg Bowen WAS an creature.
 
"If that's so—though I can't believe it—we can't do anything," said the Story Girl . "Pat must die."
 
Cecily began to weep afresh.
 
"I'd do anything to save Pat's life," she said. "I'd BELIEVE anything."
 
"There's nothing we can do," said Felicity impatiently.
 
"I suppose," sobbed Cecily, "we might go to Peg Bowen and ask her to forgive Pat and take the spell off him. She might, if we apologized real ."
 
At first we were by the suggestion. We didn't believe that Peg Bowen was a witch. But to go to her—to seek her out in that mysterious woodland retreat of hers which was invested with all the terrors of the unknown! And that this suggestion should come from timid Cecily, of all people! But then, there was poor Pat!
 
"Would it do any good?" said the Story Girl . "Even if she did make Pat sick I suppose it would only make her crosser if we went and accused her of bewitching him. Besides, she didn't do anything of the sort."
 
But there was some in the Story Girl's voice.
 
"It wouldn't do any harm to try," said Cecily. "If she didn't make him sick it won't matter if she is cross."
 
"It won't matter to Pat, but it might to the one who goes to her," said Felicity. "She isn't a witch, but she's a spiteful old woman, and goodness knows what she'd do to us if she caught us. I'm scared of Peg Bowen, and I don't care who knows it. Ever since I can mind ma's been saying, 'If you're not good Peg Bowen will catch you.'"
 
"If I thought she really made Pat sick and could make him better,
I'd try to her somehow," said the Story Girl decidedly.
"I'm frightened of her, too—but just look at poor, darling
Paddy."
We looked at Paddy who continued to stare before him with unwinking eyes. Uncle Roger came out and looked at him also, with what seemed to us unconcern.
 
"I'm afraid it's all up with Pat," he said.
 
"Uncle Roger," said Cecily , "Peter says Peg Bowen has bewitched Pat for scratching her. Do you think it can be so?"
 
"Did Pat scratch Peg?" asked Uncle Roger, with a horror-stricken face. "Dear me! Dear me! That mystery is solved. Poor Pat!"
 
Uncle Roger nodded his head, as if resigning himself and Pat to the worst.
 
"Do you really think Peg Bowen is a witch, Uncle Roger?" demanded the Story Girl incredulously.
 
"Do I think Peg Bowen is a witch? My dear Sara, what do YOU think of a woman who can turn herself into a black cat whenever she likes? Is she a witch? Or is she not? I leave it to you."
 
"Can Peg Bowen turn herself into a black cat?" asked Felix, staring.
 
"It's my belief that that is the least of Peg Bowen's accomplishments," answered Uncle Roger. "It's the easiest thing in the world for a witch to turn herself into any animal you choose to mention. Yes, Pat is bewitched—no doubt of that—not the least in the world."
 
"What are you telling those children such stuff for?" asked Aunt
Olivia, passing on her way to the well.
"It's an temptation," answered Uncle Roger, strolling over to carry her pail.
 
"You can see your Uncle Roger believes Peg is a witch," said
Peter.
"And you can see Aunt Olivia doesn't," I said, "and I don't either."
 
"See here," said the Story Girl , "I don't believe it, but there MAY be something in it. Suppose there is. The question is, what can we do?"
 
"I'll tell you what I'D do," said Peter. "I'd take a present for Peg, and ask her to make Pat well. I wouldn't let on I thought she'd made him sick. Then she couldn't be offended—and maybe she'd take the spell off."
 
"I think we'd better all give her something," said Felicity. "I'm willing to do that. But who's going to take the presents to her?"
 
"We must all go together," said the Story Girl.
 
"I won't," cried Sara Ray in terror. "I wouldn't go near Peg
Bowen's house for the world, no matter who was with me."
"I've thought of a plan," said the Story Girl. "Let's all give her something, as Felicity says. And let us all go up to her place this evening, and if we see her outside we'll just go quietly and set the things down before her with the letter, and say nothing but come respectfully away."
 
"If she'll let us," said Dan significantly.
 
"Can Peg read a letter?" I asked.
 
"Oh, yes. Aunt Olivia says she is a good scholar. She went to school and was a smart girl until she became crazy. We'll write it very plain."
 
"What if we don't see her?" asked Felicity.
 
"We'll put the things on her doorstep then and leave them."
 
"She may be miles away over the country by this time," sighed Cecily, "and never find them until it's too late for Pat. But it's the only thing to do. What can we give her?"
 
"We mustn't offer her any money," said the Story Girl. "She's very indignant when any one does that. She says she isn't a beggar. But she'll take anything else. I shall give her my string of blue . She's fond of finery."
 
"I'll give her that sponge cake I made this morning," said
Felicity. "I guess she doesn't get sponge cake very often."
"I've nothing but the ring I got as a for selling needles last winter," said Peter. "I'll give her that. Even if she hasn't got rheumatism it's a real handsome ring. It looks like solid gold."
 
"I'll give her a roll of candy," said Felix.
 
"I'll give one of those little jars of cherry preserve I made," said Cecily.
 
"I won't go near her," quavered Sara Ray, "but I want to do something for Pat, and I'll send that piece of apple leaf lace I knit last week."
 
I to give the Peg some apples from my birthday tree, and Dan declared he would give her a plug of tobacco.
 
"Oh, won't she be insulted?" exclaimed Felix, rather .
 
"Naw," grinned Dan. "Peg chews tobacco like a man. She'd rather have it than your rubbishy , I can tell you. I'll run down to old Mrs. Sampson's and get a............