"Well, Hat, how is your patient?" inquired the pastor, as he entered preceding the magistrate.
"You will see, sir," replied the old woman.
The two visitors looked around the dimly-lighted, miserable room, in one corner of which stood a low bed, upon which lay extended the form of an old, feeble and gray-haired woman.
"How are you, my poor soul, and what can I do for you now I am here?" inquired Old Hurricane, who in the actual presence of suffering was not utterly without pity.
"You are a magistrate?" inquired the dying woman.
"Yes, my poor soul."
"And qualified to administer an oath and take your deposition," said the minister.
"Will it be legal--will it be evidence in a court of law?" asked the woman, lifting her dim eyes to the major.
"Certainly, my poor soul--certainly," said the latter, who, by the way, would have said anything to soothe her.
"Send every one but yourself from the room."
"What, my good soul, send the parson out in the storm? That will never do! Won't it be just as well to let him go up in the corner yonder?"
"No! You will repent it unless this communication is strictly private."
"But, my good soul, if it is to be used in a court of law?"
"That will be according to your own discretion!"
"My dear parson," said Old Hurricane, going to the minister, "would you be so good as to retire?"
"There is a fire in the woodshed, master," said Hat, leading the way.
"Now, my good soul, now! You want first to be put upon your oath?"
"Yes, sir."
The old man drew from his great-coat pocket a miniature copy of the Scriptures, and with the usual formalities administered the oath.
"Now, then, my good soul, begin--'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,' you know. But first, your name?"
"Is it possible you don't know me, master?"
"Not I, in faith."
"For the love of heaven, look at me, and try to recollect me, sir! It is necessary some one in authority should be able to know me," said the woman, raising her haggard eyes to the face of her visitor.
The old man adjusted his spectacles and gave her a scrutinizing look, exclaiming at intervals: "Lord bless my soul, it is! it ain't! it must! it can't be! Granny Grewell, the--the--the--midwife that disappeared from here some twelve or thirteen years ago!"