"I can't say that, Molly; but if she be hard-hearted, there is no reason why any one should wish her ill. I must, therefore, insist on your withdrawing your wish."

"If I do so, Mister Jones, it wonnot be for her, but for your sake, who has always been kind to me."

"You have spoken like a sensible woman, Molly. I have one more request to make, Mrs. McGee; that is, promise me you won't go near Mrs. Lloyd again."

"Dear-a-me, you are a strange mon, parson. Between you an' me and the post, I've no wish to go near the likes of her, as she has no pity on a poor starving woman."

"As you have now promised me not to go near Mrs. Lloyd, just go into the kitchen and get some supper, and make haste home, for it is getting late."

When Mrs. McGee left us, I also left to depart. On the ensuing afternoon I was informed, that before daylight next morning, Mr. Jones, before the family were up, had paid a visit to Mrs. Lloyd's cow-house, and had given to each beast a small ball made up of herbs. When these were swallowed the cattle appeared scarcely able to contain themselves for delight. Mr.

Jones saw by their appearance that his medicine (?) had proved successful; so calling up the family, he informed them that the spell was broken. The cows no longer refused to give milk, and Mrs. Lloyd even declared that it was superior in quality to what she previously had.

Subsequently, she experienced no difficulty in her churning operations.

The fame of Mr. Jones spread, in consequence, far and wide, and, unfortunately for his own peace and comfort, applications to him for a.s.sistance, when the witches had afflicted man or beast, became incessant.

PARSON JONES'S TALE OF NAT THE SMITH AND THE THREE WISHES.

It was a dreary night in the month of December when there sat in the chimney-corner of the Jolly Fiddler-which, as you know, is the chief public-house in the little village of Nantglyn-Nat the smith. Nat, as you are aware, is a real good fellow, and a hard-working man, but, unfortunately, he is terribly fond of his beer. I have been told that he has spent a little fortune at the Jolly Fiddler, and I can well believe it, for he pays nightly visits to the house, which he never leaves until he has had two quarts of ale; and I fear that latterly he has not confined himself to that quant.i.ty. However, I am antic.i.p.ating this part of my story, and must first narrate, as succinctly as possible, the incidents of Nat's life during the past seven years. Besides, I am anxious to finish telling you the story to-night, though I am not sure I can complete it, as there is a gap in the history of my friend Nat which has not yet been made up. With the above remarks by way of introduction, we will now go back to the dreary night of December already alluded to.

After Nat had sat for some time in the chimney-corner at the Jolly Fiddler, he called out to the landlord,-

"Another quart, Bill; and mind it's from the barrel in the corner."

"All right, Nat," replied the landlord; "you shall ha' a quart of the best."

"Here's the sixpence, Bill," said Nat, when the ale was placed before him on the table; "and, upon my soul, I've not another copper left."

"Never mind about the money, Nat; I'll trust you for as much as you like to drink."

"Thee knows, Will, I never allow scoring for beer. Ready money or no ale, is my motto."

"And a good motto it is, Nat. Oh, I wish all my customers was like you; for if they was, I should have no fear of being marched off to Lunnun (London) to be whitewashed." (A provincialism implying the pa.s.sing the Bankruptcy Court.)

"There is no danger of me going up there, Will," rejoined Nat. "'Cause why, no one will trust me."

"Dunna thee say that, Nat; for thee knows very well that I'll trust thee."

"Trust or no trust, Will, here goes," and putting the jug of foaming ale to his mouth he drank a good draught; and then smacking his lips, said, "Upon my word, this is the real 'cwrw da.' A quart of this is worth a gallon of the last brewing."

"So it ought to be, Nat; for I put four bushels of best malt to this barrel in the corner."

"There's no mistake, Bill, about its strength; and between us, as old friends, my only fear is that I shall not be able to get my fair allowance of it."

"Oh! of that you need not be afraid, Nat; 'cause why, I only give this beer to my constant and my very best customers, and-"

"Of which I am one, I s'pose you was going to say."

"And if I had said so, Nat, I should ha' spoken the literal truth."

During the above conversation a gentleman, unperceived by the landlord and his best customer, entered the kitchen of the Jolly Fiddler. He was clad in a suit of black, over which he wore a long cloak of invisible green, the bottom of which trailed on the ground. He had on his head a felt wideawake, which was so inclined in front that his eyes were not perceptible, while the rest of his face was shut from view by an immense quant.i.ty of long, smooth, glossy hair, which descended over and below his shoulders. He had entered the kitchen of the Jolly Fiddler silently, and taking up a position between the door and chimney-corner in which the smith was sitting, and at the landlord's back, his presence was unperceived by both. On that spot he had stood during the conversation between Nat and Bill, to which he had listened with great attention.

When the landlord turned away from his friend Nat, to attend to the duties of his house, he was astonished to find the presence of the stranger, whose strange appearance struck him with awe, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. However he summoned up his courage, and taking a slanting direction, he escaped through a side door into the little back parlour of the inn.

Nat was not a spectator of this scene. When Will left him, he took his quart of ale in his hand, and composing himself in the chimney corner, he sat there, intently watching the glowing wood-fire before him. There he sat, now and then sipping his ale, as professed wine-drinkers sip their port, remarking to himself, after each succeeding draught, "This is capital stuff! it warms the c.o.c.kles of one's heart as it goes down; but, poor me! when, oh when, shall I have sixpence in my pocket to buy another quart? Oh, it's a sad thing to be poor in this rich land of plenty!

It's not right for me and my cla.s.s to starve for good ale, when our wealthy neighbours have their cellars full, and plenty of gold to buy more. If I was rich, the poor man should never want for a pint or a jug of the real 'cwrw da.' Ah, me! I sha' never be rich. I'm born to be poor, and to labour as them sparks fly up the chimney. It's sad, very sad, and heart-breaking, to have an empty pocket when one's soul is thirsty."

Nat sat thus musing and talking to himself for nearly half an hour. At last he finished his ale, and then, taking his stick in his hand, rose to go home. There was no one in the kitchen now. Nat thought this very strange, as Bill was generally about; but he fancied, as he rose to depart, that he saw the shadow of a human form on the wall. Of this he took no particular notice at the time; but, on listening to Will's story the following day, Nat felt that the supposed shadow was a terrible reality.

Nat left the inn with a heavy heart. It is true he had had his quart of good ale, but he thought that, as work was slack, he would have considerable difficulty "in raising the wind" for several days, and this affliction had a depressing influence on his spirits. At last he reached the little wicket gate leading from the highway to his cottage; but on his opening it, he was awe-struck on seeing coming from his house along the garden-path, a gentleman clad in deep mourning. As there was something in the appearance of the gentleman Nat did not like, he attempted to avoid him by leaving the path free; but when Nat turned out of the path the figure turned too, and came up, meeting the smith face to face, and addressed him thus:-

"You are rather late to-night, Mr. Smith."

"If I be late, sir," retorted Nat, "I do not see it's any business of yours."

"Don't be angry with me, friend, I meant no harm, for my object in meeting you here is to afford you help and counsel."

"I need, sir, no man's help," replied Nat; "and when I require advice I'll seek it at the house of a friend."

"But, friend Vulcan, I can give you the help which no _man_ can."

"Give it then, sir, to those who seek; as for me I desire it not."

"You are poor, friend, and penniless."

"But is poverty, sir, a crime?"

"Oh no, friend, poverty is not a crime; but you must own, Mr. Smith, that an empty pocket is very inconvenient for a thirsty soul."

"How do you know, sir, that my pocket's empty?"

"My knowledge of the fact, friend, is derived from your own confession."

"But, sir, I never confessed to you, 'cause why, I never saw you before."

"You speak truly on that point, friend Vulcan; nevertheless, I must tell you I heard your confession to-night at the Jolly Fiddler."

"I did not see you there, sir."

"Perhaps not. I was there, notwithstanding; and I heard you declaring to Will, the landlord, that you then parted with the last sixpence."

"If I've spent all, sir, I can work and earn more."

"Oh, sir, you can work: but I know you do not like work; and if you will comply with my wishes, you shall have all you require without working another hour."

"What is your wish, sir, and the nature of your service?"

"I will tell you, Mr. Vulcan, in a few words. But, first, let me say that I take a deep interest in you, and am supremely anxious to promote your welfare. Now, if you will consent to become my son, at the expiration of seven years from this hour, I will grant you any three things you might desire, whatever they may be."