are suggesting that his owner might have borrowed another broomstick from stock.  But you have no idea what arduous work it is, breaking in a wild broomstick to the saddle.  It sometimes takes days, and is not really suitable work for a woman, even in war-time.  Often the brutes are savage, and always they are obstinate.  The shop-lady could not afford to go to the City by Tube, not to mention the ferry fare, which was rather expensive and erratic, not being L.C.C.  Of course a flash of lightning is generally available for magic people.  But it is considered not only unpatriotic but bad form to use lightning in war-time.

The shop was not expecting customers on Sunday, but its manageress had hardly got her head well into the basin when somebody entered.  She stood up dripping.

“Is Miss Thelma Bennett Watkins at home?” asked Sarah Brown, after a pause, during which she made her characteristic effort to remember what she had come for.

“No,” said the other.  “But do take a seat.  We met last night, you may remember.  Perhaps you wouldn’t mind lending me one-and-twopence to buy two chops for our luncheon.  I’ve got an extra coupon.  There’s tinned salmon in stock, but I don’t advise it.”

“I’ve only got sevenpence, just enough to take me home,” answered Sarah Brown.  “But I can pawn my ear-rings.”

I dare say you have never been in a position to notice that there is no pawn-shop on Mitten Island.  The inhabitants of model villages always have assured incomes and pose as lilies of the field.  Sarah Brown and her hostess sat down on the counter without regret to a luncheon consisting of one orange, found by the guest in her bag and divided, and two thin captain biscuits from stock.  They were both used to dissolving visions of impossible chops, both were cheerfully familiar with the feeling of light tragedy which invades you towards six o’clock P.M., if you have not been able to afford a meal since breakfast.

“Now look here,” said Sarah Brown, as she plunged her pocket-knife into the orange.  “Would you mind telling me—­are you a fairy, or a third-floor-back, or anything of that sort?  I won’t register it, or put it on the case-paper, I promise, though if you are superhuman in any way I shall be seriously tempted.”

“I am a Witch,” said the witch.

Now witches and wizards, as you perhaps know, are people who are born for the first time.  I suppose we have all passed through this fair experience, we must all have had our chance of making magic.  But to most of us it came in the boring beginning of time, and we wasted our best spells on plesiosauri, and protoplasms, and angels with flaming swords, all of whom knew magic too, and were not impressed.  Witches and wizards are now rare, though not so rare as you think.  Remembering nothing, they know nothing, and are not bored.  They have to learn everything from the very beginning, except magic, which is the only really original sin.  To the