She died four years after Britta's birth--her death was hastened, so I have heard, through old Lovisa's harsh treatment,--anyhow the little lass she left behind her had no very easy time of it all alone with her grandmother,--eh Britta ?" Britta looked up and shook her head emphatically.
"Then," went on Gueldmar, "when my girl came back the last time from France, Britta chanced to see her, and, strangely enough,"-- here he winked shrewdly--"took a fancy to her face,--odd, wasn't it?
However, nothing would suit her but that she must be Thelma's handmaiden, and here she is.

Now you know her history,--she would be happy enough if her grandmother would let her alone; but the silly old woman thinks the girl is under a spell, and that Thelma is the witch that works it;"-- and the old farmer laughed.

"There's a grain of truth in the notion too, but not in the way she has of looking at it." "All women are witches!" said Duprez.

"Britta is a little witch herself!" Britta's rosy cheeks grew rosier at this, and she tossed her chestnut curls with an air of saucy defiance that delighted the Frenchman.

He forgot his wounded cheek and his disfiguring bandages in the contemplation of the little plump figure, cased in its close-fitting scarlet bodice, and the tempting rosy lips that were in such close proximity to his touch.
"If it were not for those red hands!" he thought.