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the grisly cult of North Berwick was literally burned out. But Doctor Melcher, a more modern scholar, had never seen or heard of anything remotely resembling Ivy Hill’s disorder.

So it went, for three full days. Gib, too, heard the doleful gossip as he slunk around the village to hunt for food and to avoid Jael Bettiss, who did not like him near when she did magic. Ivy Hill was dying, and he mourned her, as for the boons of fish and fire and cushions and petting that might have been his. He knew, too, that he was responsible for her doom and his loss—that handkerchief that he had stolen had helped Jael Bettiss to direct her spells.

But philosophy came again to his aid. If Ivy Hill died, she died. Anyway, he had never been given the chance to live as her pensioner and pet. He was not even sure that he would have taken the chance—thinking of it, he felt strong, accustomed clamps upon his heart. The house in the hollow was his home forever. Elsewhere he’d be an exile.

Nothing would ever root it out of his feline soul.

ON THE evening of the third day, witch and cat faced each other across the table-top in the old house in the hollow.

“They’ve talked loud enough to make his dull ears hear,” grumbled the fearful old woman—with none but Gib to see her, she had washed away the disguising enchantment that, though so full of lure, seemed to be a burden upon her. “John Frey has agreed to take Ivy Hill out in his automobile. The doctor thinks that the fresh air, and John Frey’s company, will make her feel better—but it won’t. It’s too late. She’ll never return from that drive.”

She took up the pin-pierced wax image of her rival, rose and started toward the kitchen.

“What are you going to do?” Gib forced himself to ask.

“Do?” repeated Jael Bettiss, smiling murderously. “I’m going to put an end to that baby-faced chit—but why are you so curious? Get out, with your prying!”

And, snarling curses and striking with her claw-like hands, she made him spring down from his chair and run out of the house. The door slammed, and he crouched in some brambles and watched. No sound, and at the half-blinded windows no movement; but, after a time, smoke began to coil upward from the chimney. Its first puffs were dark and greasy-looking. Then it turned dull gray, then white, then blue as indigo. Finally it vanished altogether.

When Jael Bettiss opened the door and came out, she was once more in the semblance of a beautiful dark girl. Yet Gib recognized a greater terror about her than ever before.

“You be gone from here when I get back,” she said to him.

“Gone?” stammered Gib, his little heart turning cold. “What do you mean?”

She stooped above him, like a threatening bird of prey.

“You be gone,” she repeated. “If I ever see you again. I’ll kill you—or I’ll make my new husband kill you.”

He still could not believe her. He shrank back, and his eyes turned mournfully to the old house that was the only thing he loved.

“You’re the only witness to the things I’ve done,” Jael Bettiss continued. “Nobody would believe their ears if a cat started telling tales, but anyway, I don’t want any trace of you around. If you leave, they’ll forget that I used to be a witch. So run!”

She turned away. Her mutterings were now only her thoughts aloud:

“If my magic works—and it always works—that car will find itself idling