I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. "Sometimes a cup of lies is a cheering thing," replied the trader. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones. Descending the hollow, or rather excavation,—for it was an old disused clay-pit, at the bottom of which the cottage was situated,—he speedily succeeded in arousing the ancient sibyl, and having committed Edgeworth Bess to her care, with a promise of an abundant reward in case she watched diligently over her safety, and attended to her comforts till his return,—to all which Black Mary readily agreed,—he departed with a heart lightened of half its load. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall.
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