132 
WANDERINGS IN 
SECOND 
JOURN F.Y. 
Anecdote. 
Many years ago I knew poor harmless Mary; 
old age had marked her strongly, just as he will 
mark you and me, should we arrive at her years and 
carry the weight of grief which bent her double. 
The old men of the village said she had been very 
pretty in her youth ; and nothing could be seen 
more comely than Mary when she danced on the 
green. He who had gained her heart, left her for 
another, less fair, though richer than Mary. From 
that time she became sad and pensive ; the rose left 
her cheek, and she was never more seen to dance 
round the May-pole on the green : her expectations 
were blighted ; she became quite indifferent to every 
thing around her, and seemed to think of nothing 
but how she could best attend her mother, who was 
lame, and not long for this life. Her mother had 
begged a black kitten from some boys who were 
going to drown it, and in her last illness she told 
Mary to be kind to it for her sake. 
When age and want had destroyed the symmetry 
of Mary’s fine form, the village began to consider 
her as one who had dealings with spirits; her cat 
confirmed the suspicion. If a cow died, or a villager 
wasted away with an unknown complaint, Mary and 
her cat had it to answer for. Her broom sometimes 
served her for a walking-stick : and if ever she sup¬ 
ported her tottering frame with it as far as the May- 
pole, where once, in youthful bloom and beauty, she 
had attracted the eyes of all, the boys would surround 
her, and make sport of her, while her cat had neither 
friend nor safety beyond the cottage wall. Nobody 
