not know how much it would cost her. The house was very nice, and the white sand on the parlor floor was traced in patterns of roses and buds as fine as a velvet carpet. On the door-stone, at the east side of the house, stood an iron kettle, with flaming red flowers growing in it, as bright as those on Mary's sampler. Mary said it seemed as if the kettle had been taken off the stove and set out there to cool.

After a nice supper of hot biscuits, honey, cheese, and spice-cake, they all started for prayer meeting, locking the house behind them; for Dr. Hilton had business in the next town, and was to be gone all night.

Patty was not in the habit of sitting remarkably still, even at church on the Sabbath; and as for a prayer meeting in a school-house, she had never attended one before, and the very idea of it amused her to begin with. It was so funny to see grown people in those seats where the children sat in the daytime! Patty almost wondered if the minister would not call them out in the floor to recite. The services were long, and grew very dull. To pass away the time, she kept sliding off the back seat, which was much too high for her, and bouncing back again, twisting her head around to see who was there, or peeping through her fingers at a little boy, who peeped back again.

Mary whispered to her to sit still, and Siller Noonin shook her head; but Patty did not consider Mary worth minding, and had no particular respect for Siller. Finally, just at the close of a long prayer, she happened to spy Daddy Wiggins, who was sleeping with his mouth open, and the sight was too much for Patty: she giggled out-right. It was a very faint laugh, hardly louder than the chirp of a cricket; but it reached the sharp ears of Deacon Turner, the tithing-man,—the same one who sat in church watching to see if the children behaved well, and he called right out in meeting, in a dreadful voice,—

"Patience Lyman!"

If he had fired a gun at her head it would not have startled her more. It was the first time she had ever been spoken to in public, and she sank back in Mary's arms, feeling that all was over with her. Other little girls had had their names called out, but they were generally those whose parents did not take proper care of them,—rude children, and not the sort with whom Patty associated.

O, what would her mother say? Was there any place where she could go and hide? Sally Potter would never speak to her again, and Linda Chase would think she was a heathen child.

She didn't care whether she ever had any new clothes to wear or not; what difference would it make to anybody that lived out in the barn? And that was where she meant to live all the rest of her days,—in one of the haymows.

Kind sister Mary kept her arm round the sobbing child, and comforted her, as well as she could, by little hugs. The meeting was soon over, and Patty was relieved to find that she had the use of her feet. So crushed as she had been by this terrible blow, she had hardly supposed she should be able to walk.

CHAPTER V.

A WITCH-TALK.

"It was real mean and hateful of Deacon Turner," says Mary, as they went back to Dr. Hilton's. "You didn't giggle any, hardly, and he knew you didn't mean to. I'll tell father, and he won't like it one bit."

Patty choked back a sob. This was a new way of looking at things, and made them seem a little less dreadful. Perhaps she wouldn't stay in the barn forever; possibly not more than a year or two.

"Deacon Turner is a very ha'sh man," said Siller; "but if he'd stopped to think twice, he wouldn't have spoken out so to one of you children; for you see your father is about the best friend he's got. He likes to keep on the right side of Squire Lyman, and he must have spoke out before he thought."

Patty drew a long breath. She began to think the Deacon was the one to blame, and she hadn't done any thing so very bad after all, and wouldn't live in the barn more than a day or two, if she did as long as that.

She was glad she was not going home to-night to be seen by any of the family, especially Rachel. By the time they reached Dr. Hilton's she was quite calm, and when Siller asked her if she would like some pancakes for breakfast, she danced, and said, "O, yes, ma'am," in her natural voice.

But, as Siller said, they were all rather stirred up, and wouldn't be in a hurry about going to bed. Perhaps the blackberry tea they had drunk at supper time was too strong for Siller's nerves; at any rate, she felt so wide awake that she chose to sit up knitting, with Patty in her lap, and did not perceive that both the children were growing sleepy.

It was a lovely evening, and the bright moon sailing across the blue sky set the simple woman to thinking,—not of the great and good God of whom she had been hearing this evening, but, I am ashamed to say, of witches!

"I'm glad I've got company," said she, nodding to Mary, "for there's kind of a creeping feeling goes over me such shiny nights as this. It's just the time for Goody Knowles to be out on a broomstick."

"Why, Siller Noonin," exclaimed Mary, "you don't believe in such foolishness as that! I never knew you did before!"

Siller did not answer, for she suddenly remembered that Mrs. Lyman was very particular as to what was said before her children.

"Tell me, Siller; you don't suppose witches go flying round when the moon shines?" asked Mary, curling her lip.

"That's what folks say, child."

"Well, I do declare, Siller, I thought you had more sense."

Mrs. Noonin's black eyes sparkled with anger.

"That's free kind of talk for a little girl that's some related to Sir William Phips; that used to be Governor of this Commonwealth of Massachusetts," said she.

"I never heard of Mr. Phips."

"Well, that's nothing strange. He died over a hundred years ago; but he didn't make fun of witches, I can tell you. He had 'em chained up so they couldn't hurt folks."

"Hurt folks?" said little Patty.

"Yes; you know witches have a way of taking various shapes, such as cats and dogs, and all sorts of creeturs, and going about doing mischief," said Siller, with a solemn click of her knitting-needles.

Mary's nose went farther up in the air. She had heard plenty about the Salem Witchcraft, and knew the stories were all as silly as silly can be.

"Didn't you never hear tell of that Joan of Arc over there to Salem?" went on Siller, who knew no more about history than a baby.

"We've heard of Noah's ark," put in Patty.

"Well, Joan was a witch, and took the shape of a man, and marched at the head of an army, all so grand; but she got found out, and they burnt her up. It was fifty years ago or more."

"Beg your pardon, Siller; but it was almost four hundred years ago," said Mary; "and it wasn't in this country either, 'twas in France. Mother told me all about it; she read it in a book of history."

Siller looked extremely mortified, and picked up a stitch without speaking.

"And besides that," said Mary, "Joan of Arc was a beautiful young girl, and not a witch. I know some of the people called her so; but mother says they were very foolish and wicked."

"Well, I ain't a going to dispute your mother in her opinion of witches; she knows twice to my once about books; but