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           "Thejunkheapforyou,youhearme,thejunkheap!"Hewalkedoffandplungedhimselfdownonthesoda-popcratetofeelthecoinsinhismoneyapronagain,likeitwashisstomachgivinghimpain.

           "Shejustcan’t—oh,shecan’tbeoutoforder,"saidDouglas,stricken.

           "She’sold,"saidTom."Grandpasaysshewasherewhenhewasaboyandbefore.Soit’sboundtobesomedayshe’dkonkoutand..."

           "Comeonnow,"whisperedDouglas."Oh,please,please,writesoTomcansee!"

           Heshovedanothercoinstealthilyintothemachine."Please..."

           Theboyspressedtheglass,theirbreathmadecumuluscloudsonthepane.

           Then,deepinsidethebox,awhisper,awhir.

           Andslowly,thewitch’sheadroseupandlookedattheboysandtherewassomethinginhereyesthatfrozethemasherhandbegantoscrabblealmostfranticallybackandforthuponthetarots,topause,hurryon,return.Herheadbentdown,onehandcametorestandashudderingshookthemachineastheotherhandwrote,paused,wrote,andstoppedatlastwithaparoxysmsoviolenttheglassinthecasechimed.Thewitch’sfacebentinarigidmechanicalmisery,almostfistedintoaball.ThenthemachinerygaspedandasinglecogslippedandatinytarotcardtickleddowntheflueintoDouglas’scuppedhands.

           "She’salive!She’sworkingagain!"

           "What’sthecardsay,Doug?"

           "It’sthesameoneshewroteformelastSaturday!Listen..."