"It is by no means an ordinary herb," Friendleton returned lightly. "There may be magic in it for aught I can tell. My uncle, who sent me the bulbs from even so far away as Spain, hath a shrewd name as a wise man; and to say sooth he belike doth know far more than altogether becometh a good Christian. I give you fair warning that there may be mischief in the herb; though to be sure," he added laughing, "the earth in which it grows is consecrated, for I filled the pot from Copp's Hill graveyard hard by here." A momentary gleam shot with a sinister light its fiery sparkle across the black eyes of Mistress Henshaw. "To one who feareth no harm," she answered, "it seldom haps. I trust the wind may hold fair for your sailing," she added, glancing from the small-paned window, "and that you may safely return to Boston as you are minded." "Thank you, I have hitherto been much favored by Providence in my journeyings. Farewell, Mistress Henshaw." The old dame received his adieu, and a moment later she watched from the window his active young figure as he walked briskly away. She regarded it intently until a corner hid him from sight. Then she turned back to her room and her occupations. "Providence, indeed!" she muttered half aloud, with a world of contempt in her tone. Then she turned to the thrifty, healthy tuberose and caressed its leaves with her thin old fingers as if it were alive and could understand her attentions. The house in which this conversation took place was still standing a few years since, the oldest in Boston, at the corner of Moon and Sun Court streets. It was erected in 1669; its timber, tradition says, being cut in the neighborhood. The upper story projected over the lower like a frowning brow, from beneath which the windows shone at night like the glowing eye-balls of a wild beast. It was a stout and almost warlike-looking edifice, which preserved even up to the day when, in 1878, it was at length pulled down by the hand of progress, a certain strongly individual appearance, which if less marked at the time when John Friendleton bade Mistress Henshaw good-by, and the building was thirty years old, must always have distinguished the dwelling from those about it. Dwellings, however, take much of their air from dwellers, and Mistress Henshaw was likely to impart to any house she inhabited a bearing unlike that of its neighbors. She was a dame to all appearances of some three score winters, each frosty season having left its snow upon her hair. Her figure was still erect, while her eyes were piercing and black and capable of a glance of such strength and directness as almost to seem supernatural.