Chapter One.

The succession of mountain ranges, precipitous and rugged, which extend from the shores of the Irish Sea to the boundaries of England, rising tier above tier, and culminating, at different points, in the heights of Snowdon, Cader Idris, and Plinlimmon, gives to wild Wales that romantic beauty for which it is so justly celebrated. That mountain region, too, guarded by the strong arms and undaunted hearts of its heroic sons, formed an impassable bulwark against the advance of barbarian invaders, and remained for many years, while Saxon England was yet pagan, the main refuge of that Christian religion to which Britain owes its present greatness. Yet subsequently, on account of the inaccessible nature of the country, the inhabitants, separated from their more enlightened fellow-subjects, remained for a long period almost as ignorant as their ancestors in the dark ages; and, till of late years, retained many of the grosser superstitions and customs of those times.

A young traveller was climbing the side of one of these mountain ranges facing the ocean, the silvery waters of which could be discerned in the distance, when he observed, far up, a hut. Solitary and cheerless it looked, scarcely to be distinguished from the sombre colouring of the surrounding ground and the rocks and bushes amid which it stood. It was weather-worn and dilapidated, and appeared altogether unfit to be the abode of a human being; indeed, a thin wreath of peat smoke ascending from an aperture in the roof alone made it likely that it was inhabited. Its appearance offered no temptation to the young stranger to turn aside from the path he was pursuing, and he continued his ascent till he gained a rocky pinnacle, from whence he could watch the sun dipping into the ocean; and hence he could look down, on one side, over a confused mass of barren hills and fertile valleys, rocks, and precipices, heights crowned with trees, peaks bare and rugged, and glens with sparkling torrents dashing and foaming amid them; while on the other side, towards

the ocean, he saw before him a wide and smiling valley, with a stream meandering through it, and green meadows and groves of trees, from among which a church spire reared its pointed summit; and near it a cheerful village of white-washed cottages and other dwellings of more pretension; and there were sheep feeding, and cattle wending their way slowly homeward, all speaking of peace and security.

“I could not have selected a more lovely spot to spend an evening in, had I been allowed a choice,” said the young traveller to himself, as he took his seat on the highest point he could find. “As I cannot find my home, I could not be better off. I thought that I knew perfectly well the place my family have got to, but I am fairly puzzled with the Welsh names. I ought to have kept my brother’s letters in which he had clearly written it down. Whether it is Twrog-y-Bwlch, or Llwyd-y-Cynfael, or Dwyryd-y-Ffetiog, I am sure I don’t know. I hit the right post-town, of that I am nearly certain. There’s a village in the bottom. I might go down and inquire, but then I probably should not find my way back again over the mountain to the inn where I left my traps. I hope that I may hit it off to-morrow. It’s very tantalising, and provoking too, to be so near home, and yet not able to find it. It was very stupid to lose the letter. They do say midshipmen are very careless chaps, and that I am no exception to the rule. Well, I have no reason to grumble. I haven’t enjoyed such a

sight as this for many a day, though it’s something like being mast-headed, except with the difference that I may go down when I like. I should enjoy it more if I had a messmate to talk to about it. The air is wonderfully fine up here. It makes me feel inclined to shout out at the top of my voice, ‘Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, And Britons never, never, never will be slaves,’ Hurra! That’s it. Hurra, boys! ‘We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.’”

Thus the happy young midshipman gave full scope to the exuberance of his spirits, feeling very sure that no one was listening to him. As he ceased, a curiously wild, mournful strain struck his ear, ascending from below him on the west, and forming a strange contrast to the merry notes he had been singing. It was like the noonday song of the joyous lark, as he soars into the blue sky, answered by the midnight croak of the raven as he sits on the old abbey’s ivy-covered wall. He listened. It seemed rather like a continued shriek than a song, or the fearful cry of the fabled Banshee as she flits by the family mansion in Ireland, to warn the inmates, as is ignorantly supposed, that one of their number must prepare to quit the world, its pleasures and its sorrows. The young midshipman’s mind was, however, too well trained to indulge even for a moment in any such fancies, for he owed his education to a wise, religious, and loving father. Yet he was sorely puzzled at first to account for the wild strains which floated through the air, till he caught sight of the ruined

hut he had observed on his way up, and discerned a large rent in the roof, through which he supposed the sounds uttered by its inmate must be ascending. He was too far off to distinguish the words; but that there were words uttered, and probably as strange as the music itself, if music he could call it, he was very certain. Now the strains rose to a high pitch, now they swelled, now decreased into a low moan scarcely audible.

“Some poor mad creature,” said the midshipman to himself. “I should think nobody but a mad person would live in such a place as that; in truth, if anybody had to live there, its solitude and its forlorn condition would be enough to drive them out of their senses; it would me, I know; only I should forthwith set to work to make it habitable. To be sure, I shouldn’t be worse off than Tom and I were when we were cast away on that coral island in the Pacific, except that there we had summer all the year round and abundance of food of one sort or another. Here it must be terribly cold in winter, and as for food, a person would soon starve if he were compelled to live only on what the hillside produces.” The young midshipman had got into the habit of talking to himself, either during his night watches, or, it is just possible, while at the mast-head, at which post of honour, in some ships, the young gentlemen of his rank used to spend a considerable portion of their existence.

The strange singing continued for some time. As he looked down from his rocky height he saw a number of persons coming up the hill, apparently from the village towards the hut. They appeared from their movements to be children. They got close to the hut, and were hid from his sight. Now they seemed to be running away—now they returned, leaping and shouting, so that their shrill young voices reached to where he sat. Suddenly he saw them all running down the hill, just as children run, jumping and pushing against each other, and evidently in high glee. The midshipman was considering that it was time for him to return to his inn for the night, when a loud shriek, which came from the direction of the hut, struck his ear, and he saw a bright light streaming through the aperture in the roof. “Something is the matter,” he exclaimed, as jumping from his seat he ran down the mountain towards the hut: “the cottage or its inmate is on fire; I must do my best to put out the flame, at all events.”

Chapter Two.

An old woman was the sole occupant of that cheerless hut on the bleak hillside just described. She sat, on that evening, on a low stool before the hearth, on which a few clods of peat, smouldering slowly with some scarcely dry sticks on the top of them, served as an apology for a fire, and threw out the smallest possible heat to warm the shrivelled palms held up ever and anon before it. As she sat, occasionally rocking herself backwards and forwards, she sang, in a voice which sometimes sounded high and shrill, till it rose into almost a shriek, and then again sank down into a long-continued moan. She uttered words often with great rapidity, though even the poor creature herself might scarcely have been able to explain the burden of her song. The gentle breeze, pleasant in the cheerful sunshine, sighed through the rents in the tottering walls, and amid the branches of the solitary, crooked pine-tree, which bent its riven head over the building, its distorted limbs creaking and groaning as they swayed to and fro; while an owl shrieked his twit-to-hoo to the

departing sun, as he prepared to go abroad with other creatures of the night in search of prey; and cold grey twilight covered the mountain-side. There still sat the lone old woman, crouching over the mocking fire. Dark and drear was the hovel—floor it had none, save the damp, cold earth—nor was there a chimney or other outlet for the smoke, except a hole which a branch of the ill-favoured pine-tree had made in the roof, in one of his most restless moods. More light came through this hole than through the window, the broken panes of which were stuffed with rags, dry grass, and heather, though not tight enough to prevent the wind from whistling, and the rain, snow, and sleet from driving in upon the wretched inmate. Except where the solitary gleam of cold evening light fell upon the crouching figure of poor Mountain Moggy, all else in the hovel was gloom and obscurity. Little, however, did Moggy heed the weather. Winter or summer, chilling blasts or warm sunshine, the changeful seasons brought no change to her. Her brain was on fire, her

heart cold and forlorn, “icy cold, utterly forlorn and deserted,” so she says, and all feeling for outward things has long since departed.

Why does Moggy start, clasp her bony hands, open wide her almost sightless eyes, and mutter, “Yes, yes—that’s it. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. But it’s hard, very hard to forgive our foes. Does God find it so hard to forgive me?” Then again she starts off in her wild song.

Once more she is silent, and listens to some noises outside. She seems sorely distressed. Again and again she starts. The noises increase, children’s feet and voices are heard around the hut, and—is it possible?—a stone comes whizzing through the glassless window across the darkened space, and a heavy thump announces that it has found a destination; another, and another follows—some come in sideways, and one striking the window bar glances off and reaches the hearth, whence it drives before it a lighted stick which sends out sparks on every side and causes a faint gleam of light in the hitherto gloomy room. Shouts of laughter accompany each stone; but the sun has set, the sonorous bell of the distant church gives notice, too, that evening has arrived. The children’s ears catch the sound. “Away, away! Home, home!” they shout, as they run off from the solitary hut. Out of its window at that moment a bright light shone forth, but they did not heed it as they chased each other down the steep mountain-side, crying out, “Good-night, old witch. We’ll stone you again, old

Polly Forty Rags. If we hear any more of your witcheries we’ll make you wish you’d kept out of this country. Good-night, and bad luck to you, Old Mog.” Notwithstanding the words they used, there was terror in the voices of most of the children. Some of them shouted, “She’s coming after us! The witch is coming after us! She’s mounting her broom, and out she’ll ride. Run—run—run!” On this the urchins shrieked louder, and ran faster and faster down the slope. One boy, more daring than the rest, and superior in appearance to most of them, lingered behind, and finding a stone remaining in his pocket of those with which he had, like his companions, provided himself to attack the old woman, he turned round once more, and flung it in the direction of the hut, saying, as he did so, “That’s my parting gift, old Moggy. Ha, ha! I see the old lady is going to have a feast tonight, for she has lighted up her banqueting-hall. But I would rather not be one of the guests, though.” Pleased with what he considered his own wit, he shouted out again, and ran after

his idle companions, a prolonged cry which came from the hut hastening his steps, for he was in no degree free from the ignorant superstition of the rest of the urchin troop.

Chapter Three.

A good log was burning brightly on the hearth, and filling with its glowing, cheerful light the dining-room of Dr Morgan, the new rector of the parish, where he with his wife and the younger members of his family were collected. The rector sat in his easy-chair, his book had fallen from his hand, for he was dozing after a hard day’s work of physical and mental labour in the abodes of the sick and afflicted of his widely-scattered parish. His wife had a cradle by her side, but she held its usual occupant in her arms, putting it to sleep with a low lullaby, while a group of older children, boys and girls, sat at the table variously occupied. Charles and Anna having some fresh foreign postage-stamps, arranged them in a book according to the different countries from whence they came, and were preparing a short account of each—a plan their father had recommended, so as to give an interest to this otherwise very useless pursuit.

“This must surely be American,” said Anna, holding up a stamp. “How like a well-done photograph is the head. Can it be that of Washington?”

On this William, who was engaged professedly in learning his lessons for the next day, looked up. The rest decided that although the stamp was American, as it was the head of a somewhat sour-looking old gentleman it could not be that of the great Washington, but of one of the later Presidents of the United States. The children were talking in an undertone, so as not to disturb their father.

“Old Polly Forty Rags, the witch, came from America,” said William. “But it was from some place which the English don’t know about; a wild, barren sea-coast, just like the mountain-side up there, where they say that she used to practise her witch tricks on the vessels which came near, and many and many’s the one she has sent to the bottom or driven on the rocks.”

“How did she practise her witch tricks?” asked Arthur, who did not very clearly understand his brother’s meaning.

“How!” exclaimed William. “That’s more than I can tell. I’m only repeating what those who know all about the matter say.”

“Isn’t she a very wicked old woman then?” asked Mabel, with simplicity.

“Wicked? I should think so! as wicked an old hag as you ever heard of,” answered William. “It would be a good thing to rid the world of such a monster; but they say she can’t be killed; not if she was soused over head and ears in the river or thrown into the fire. That’s the nature of witches.”

Anna, who was giving the finishing rub to a stamp just put in, heard the last words, and, looking up, inquired with a slight tone of irony in her voice, “What did you say about witches, Willie? Who has been telling you those remarkably wise things about them?”

“Oh, the people about here, and the other fellows at school,” answered Willie in a low tone and somewhat hesitating manner, for he was not fond of having to reply to his sister’s pointed questions.

“Oh, the people about here,” said Anna, repeating his words. “Is it possible they can believe such nonsense?”

Willie did not reply. “Anna wouldn’t think it nonsense if she was to see Old Polly Forty Rags,” he muttered. After being silent for some time he added, “If ever there was an old witch she is one.”

“You said she came from America, Willie. Why, that’s where Frank’s ship has been to, isn’t it?” said Arthur.

“Of course it is,” cried Willie, as if a bright thought had occurred to him. “I wonder whether he heard anything of her there? He’ll soon be at home, and then he’ll tell us.”

“If she didn’t send his ship on the rocks,” remarked Arthur.

“She’d better not have tried to do it, or we’d pay her off for it,” said Willie, as if speaking of some heroic purpose.

“But I thought you said that she couldn’t be killed; and if she couldn’t be killed, she couldn’t be hurt, I should think,” observed Arthur, who was called the philosopher of the family.

“Well, I don’t know: they say witches can’t be killed, and that Old Polly Forty Rags has lived hundreds and hundreds of years,” said Willie, justly considered the most thoughtless of the family. “Nothing does hurt her either. You can’t think what fun it is to hear the stones bounce against her, just as if she was made of straw. If anything could hurt her, I know a big stone I sent in at her window this evening would have given her a cracker she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It’s my belief that she didn’t care for it more than she would if it had been a pea out of a pea-shooter.”

Anna’s attention was again drawn to her brother’s whispered conversation. “What are you saying about throwing stones?” she asked. “At whom have you been throwing stones?”

“Why at old Mountain Moggy, of course, or Polly Forty Rags as they call her. Who else should I throw at? She’s as hard as she is wicked; and they say she has a whole suit of elephant’s skin under her rags, and that’s one of the reasons the stones don’t hurt her.”

Anna had been so busy examining some little three-cornered Cape of Good Hope stamps, that she had not till now clearly comprehended what Willie was speaking about.

“You throw stones at Mountain Moggy!” she said in an incredulous tone.

“Of course we do, and awful fun we had this very evening,” answered William, boldly. “We heard them go in at the window and thump against the old witch. The clock struck, and we had to run away, or we should have given her more of it. But it was just as well that we were off, for some of the fellows saw her lighting up her house for her witcheries, and there’s no doubt but that she’d have sent down some of her imps after us if we hadn’t made good use of our legs to get off.”

“What do you really mean, Willie?” said Anna, now quite interested. “You cannot tell me that you have been stoning that poor miserable old woman on the mountain?”

“Haven’t we though,” said Willie, carelessly, crossing his arms on the table and beginning to pore over his book.

“Willie says that she’s a wicked black witch, with red eyes and a blue tongue,” remarked little Mabel.

“Don’t stuff the little ones’ heads with such abominable nonsense, Will,” said Charles, looking up from his book. “There’s nothing I hate to hear so much; it’s wrong, and you have no business to do it.”

“No, indeed; it’s very wrong to tell stories about her, even in fun,” remarked Anna.

“Nonsense and stories, indeed!” cried Willie, indignantly. “They are neither one nor the other. If she isn’t black she’s near it; and I never said she had red eyes and a blue tongue; but if you two were to hear her screech and howl, as I have, you’d confess fast enough that she was a witch.” And Willie turned back to his book with the air of an injured person.