V.
Next morning I came down to breakfast, having slept like a top, feeling all the freshness and delight of the glorious climate and the glorious sunshine. I felt a little anxious as to whether coffee and rolls would satisfy the appetite that had come back to me.
"We make the English breakfast from the orders of Mr. Sutcliffe, and Paul has coffee in his room," Marcelle explained, and she certainly did justice to what she had provided. "I have heard of a dreadful thing," she went on, between mouthfuls of ham and sausage. "Imagine! there is in this country, in this nineteenth century, a witch, or so the people here imagine"—she put down her knife and fork and clasped her large white hands in horror,—"and she is starving. They think she has been the cause of the death of a bull, of a very prize bull, in the next farm, so now they have what you call in Ireland boycotted her; isn't it shocking?"
"Is it also true?" said Mr. Sutcliffe, who had provided for all my wants at breakfast, unregarded by my hostess.
"Oh, but of course, or I should not tell you," Marcelle went on; "well, figurez-vous, she is almost starving, and I want to take her food. Could you go a very long walk indeed, Miss Fairfax?"
"I should love it," I answered.
"And Mr. Sutcliffe would carry the food for the witch and for us. We shall want some luncheon, shan't we?"
