Dyceworthy stopped abruptly, a little alarmed, as she suddenly cast
aside the barrier of roses and advanced toward him, her blue eyes
blazing.
"My reputation!" she said haughtily. "Who speaks of it?"
"Oh dear, dear me!" moaned the minister pathetically. "Sad! . . . very
sad to see so ungovernable a temper, so wild and untrained a
disposition! Alas, alas! how frail we are without the Lord's
support,--without the strong staff of the Lord's mercy to lean upon! Not
I, my poor child, not I, but the whole village speaks of you; to you the
ignorant people attribute all the sundry evils that of late have fallen
sorely upon them,--bad harvests, ill-luck with the fishing, poverty,
sickness,"--here Mr. Dyceworthy pressed the tips of his fingers
delicately together, and looked at her with a benevolent
compassion,--"and they call it witchcraft,--yes! strange, very strange!
But so it is,--ignorant as they are, such ignorance is not easily
enlightened,--and though I," he sighed, "have done my poor best to
disabuse their minds of the suspicions against you, I find it is a
matter in which I, though a humble mouthpiece of the Gospel, am
powerless--quite powerless!"
She relaxed her defiant attitude, and moved away from him; the shadow of
a smile was on her lips.
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