ment of their other faculties, rises from her settle in the chimney, and coming to the table, beside Moll, says:
"I am no witch, I say; yet I could tell you things would make you think I am."
"I want to know nothing further," answers she, dolefully, "save where he is."
"Would you not know whether you shall ever see him again, or not?"
"Oh! If you can tell me that!" cries Moll, quickly.
"I may." Then, turning to me, the wise woman asks to look at my hand, and on my demurring, she says she must know whether I am a friend or an enemy, ere she speaks before me. So, on that, I give my hand, and she examines it.
"You call yourself James Hopkins," says she.
"Why, every one within a mile knows that," says I.
"Aye," answers she, fixing her piercing eye on my face; "but every one knows not that some call you Kit."
This fairly staggered me for a moment.
"How do you answer that?" she asks, observing my confusion.
"Why," says I, recovering my presence of mind, " 'tis most extraordinary, to be sure, that you should read this, for save one or two familiars, none know that my second name is Christopher."
"A fairly honest hand," says she, looking at my hand again. "Weak in some things, but a faithful friend. You may be trusted."
And so she drops my hand and takes up Moll's.
"'Tis strange," says she. "You call yourself Judith, yet here I see your name writ Moll."
