She did not live here entirely alone, for, true to the universal reputation of witches, she kept, not one cat only, but several; all black cats, too.  It was the only fancy she indulged in, the only luxury she allowed herself, and it was sad that this harmless freak should cost her so many taunts.  Sometimes the boys tried to kill her cats, aided in the murderous attempt by the village dogs, but no dog ever came back scatheless from those sharp and spiteful claws.  Hence the boys were certain as to the witchcraft, and ‘knew’ that these savage animals were true imps of Satan.

This weak and defenceless creature, living thus apart from human companionship, was supported on a small annuity, paid her quarterly by a very honest company, that would have been ruined with many such venerable clients.  On pleasant days she crept about the town to do her meagre marketing, or crawled to the paupers’ pew in the old brick meeting-house.  During the warm summer weather her scant life was somewhat cheered, and a faint attempt at joyousness sometimes winked in her old eyes, but with the winter’s cold came the cruel cramps and rheumatism, the sleepless nights and painful days.  Then Mrs. Marjoram frequently drove to her door, carrying medicines and nourishing food,—­over and above all, bringing cheerful words and a warm and hearty smile.

One winter Mrs. Marjoram was taken ill, and, being so very old, her life was despaired of.  During this sickness there came a great fall of snow, piling up four or five feet on the level, and driving and drifting into the hollows, so that for several days the less frequented roads in that part of the country were impassible.  And now, when Mrs. Marjoram, but for her own sad plight, would have thought of poor Aunt Hannah, there was no one enough interested to give her loneliness a moment’s consideration, till, one morning, one street lad cried out suddenly to another that Aunt Hannah must be buried alive!

Buried alive? The men, suddenly summoned from their business or their leisure, hardly thought that possible in the deep hollow, filled nearly to the level with heavily packed and frozen snow.

Men walked out on the firm crust till they were directly over the spot where, full twenty feet below, stood Aunt Hannah’s little house.  And they shook their heads mournfully at the sickening thought of what must lie below them.

It was a good day’s work for twenty men to open a gradually descending way to the lonely house,—­a good day’s work; so that when they reached the door—­finding it locked inside—­they sent back to the village for lanterns and candles before bursting it in.

The sight that startled and horrified them after they had forced the door, they never liked to speak of.  The sounds from the furious, spitting and snarling cats they never forgot.

Her disfigured and mutilated remains were decently interred, and when the spring-time carried away the snow, they leveled the house with the ground.  But, though they buried her out of their sight and pulled down the rotten cottage she had inhabited for so many weary years, the fearful memory of her evil name and dreadful end remained, and nearly all the village came to regard her as, in very truth, a witch.