"Where did he go?" asked George. "Down to the centre of the earth, probably," replied Mr. Stacy, solemnly. "But it's more to the point that Jenny recovered, and Aunt Nabby was never again known to carry on any of her witcheries." "Thank you, thank you," cried all the circle, except Priscilla, who still looked as if she thought stories of this kind rather silly. "Mamma," cried Lucy, after a moment's pause, as if she, too, shared Priscilla's feeling, "let us have something more sensible than witch stories." "Let us have a charade--you said you had found one in an old book that you would give us." Mrs. Danforth looked at the clock. "There is just time for one before you go to bed," she said, "and so I will give you the old one you speak of." George and Lucy clapped their hands with delight. They were fond of guessing-games, particularly when their mother played with them. "I must tell you," said Mrs. Danforth, picking up a book from the table, "that this is a very short one and must be guessed within five minutes after I have read it." Whereupon she read slowly: "'Just where the heavens grew blue and high, My first that was so pure and bright, Ere it could rise into the sky, Passed in my second out of sight; Before it vanished from the earth My whole rose through it at their birth.'" "Only five minutes!" complained George; "I don't think that's long enough. I didn't understand what the first was." Patiently Mrs. Danforth read the first two lines, then the second, and finally, at Lucy's request, the last. "I have it," cried Marcus, before three minutes had passed. "Can't we have five minutes more? I know I could guess it, if we had time enough." "You never guess anything, George, no matter how much time there is," exclaimed Marcus. "Neither does Priscilla," rejoined George; "but if we had more time--" "Six minutes have passed; you see I have given more than the allotted time," called Mrs. Danforth at last. "What did you make it, Marcus?" "Snowballs!" cried Marcus, triumphantly. "Oh, no!" protested Lucy; "how could it be 'snowballs?' What is yours, Miss Martine?" Martine handed a slip of paper to Lucy on which she had written a word. "Yes, yes, that is it. Snowdrops, that is right, isn't it, mamma?" "Yes, my dear; it is almost too simple a charade to set before our guest. It would have been harder to guess if we had tried to act it. Perhaps to-morrow we can act charades." When the younger children had gone to bed, Martine enjoyed the quiet hour with Priscilla and Mrs. Danforth and Mr. Stacy. "I had no idea Plymouth could be so interesting," she said. "I feel that my two or three more days will not be enough for all that I wish to see."