her staff at the house and departed.  The next day poor Mary was taken ill, and her father, in despair, applied to old Chattox, who promised him help, and did her best, I make no doubt—­for she would have willingly thwarted her rival, and robbed her of her prey; but the latter was too strong for her, and the hapless victim got daily worse and worse.  Her blooming cheek grew white and hollow, her dark eyes glistened with unnatural lustre, and she was seen no more on the banks of Pendle water.  Before this my aid had been called in by the afflicted father—­and I did all I could—­but I knew she would die—­and I told him so.  The information I feared had killed him, for he fell down like a stone—­and I repented having spoken.  However he recovered, and made a last appeal to Mother Demdike; but the unrelenting hag derided him and cursed him, telling him if he brought her all his mill contained, and added to that all his substance, she would not spare his child.  He returned heart-broken, and never quitted the poor girl’s bedside till she breathed her last.”

“Poor Ruchot!  Robb’d o’ his ownly dowter—­an neaw woife to cheer him!  Ey pity him fro’ t’ bottom o’ my heart,” said Bess, whose tears had flowed freely during the narration.

“He is wellnigh crazed with grief,” said the chirurgeon.  “I hope he will commit no rash act.”

Expressions of deep commiseration for the untimely death of the miller’s daughter had been uttered by all the party, and they were talking over the strange circumstances attending it, when they were roused by the trampling of horses’ feet at the door, and the moment after, a middle-aged man, clad in deep mourning, but put on in a manner that betrayed the disorder of his mind, entered the house.  His looks were wild and frenzied, his cheeks haggard, and he rushed into the room so abruptly that he did not at first observe the company assembled.

“Why, Richard Baldwyn, is that you?” cried the chirurgeon.

“What! is this the father?” exclaimed Potts, taking out his memorandum-book; “I must prepare to interrogate him.”

“Sit thee down, Ruchot,—­sit thee down, mon,” said Bess, taking his hand kindly, and leading him to a bench.  “Con ey get thee onny thing?”

“Neaw—­neaw, Bess,” replied the miller; “ey ha lost aw ey vallied i’ this warlt, an ey care na how soon ey quit it mysel.”

“Neigh, dunna talk on thus, Ruchot,” said Bess, in accents of sincere sympathy.  “Theaw win live to see happier an brighter days.”

“Ey win live to be revenged, Bess,” cried the miller, rising suddenly, and stamping his foot on the ground,—­“that accursed witch has robbed me o’ my’ eart’s chief treasure—­hoo has crushed a poor innocent os never injured her i’ thowt or deed—­an has struck the heaviest blow that could be dealt me; but by the heaven above us ey win requite her!  A feyther’s deep an lasting curse leet on her guilty heoad, an on those of aw her accursed race.  Nah rest, neet nor day, win ey know, till ey ha brought em to the stake.”