"Bible leaves!" said Dorcas. "How did Mrs. Gould's Bible happen to be torn?" "I don't know; but she puts horseshoes top o' the door, too," added Moses; "you know she does, Dorcas, and lots of other folks do it. What sort of things are witches? And what makes father and mother laugh about 'em, when other folks are so afraid?" "Because father and mother are wiser than most of the people in this little town. Perhaps I ought not to say it, Moses, but it's the truth." It was the truth, and Moses knew it very well. He was only talking to amuse himself, and to hear what Dorcas would say. You must remember this was more than sixty years ago, and Perseverance was a poor little struggling town, shut in among the hills, where the stage came only twice a week, and there were only two news-papers, and not very good schools. The most intelligent families, such as the Lymans, Potters, and Chases, laughed at the idea of witches, but there were some people who believed in them, and that very night little Patty was to have her head filled with strange stories. You remember Siller Noonin, who was at Squire Lyman's when Patty was born? She was a widow, with not much of a home of her own, and was always going about from house to house nursing sick people, and doing little odds and ends of work. To-day she had dropped in at Squire Lyman's to ask if Mrs. Lyman had any more knitting for her to do. In the nicely sanded sitting-room, or "fore-room," as most of the people called it, sat Dr. Hilton, leaning back upon the settle, trotting his foot. He called himself a doctor, though I suppose he did not know much more about the human system than little Doctor Moses, up in the spinning-chamber. When old ladies were not very well, he advised them to take "brandy and cloves, and snakeroot and cinnamon;" and sometimes, if they happened to feel better after it, they thought Dr. Hilton knew a great deal. "You are just the person--ah, I wanted to see," said Dr. Hilton to Priscilla; "I've been all round looking you up." "Now that's strange, for I was on my way to your house," said Siller, putting her hand to her side. "I don't feel well right here, and I didn't know but you could tell me of some good bitters to take." Dr. Hilton felt Siller's pulse, looked at her tongue, and then said, with a wise roll of the eye, which almost set Rachel to laughing, "I would advise you, ma'am--ah, to get a quart--ah, of good brandy, and steep some cloves in it, and some--ah,--some--ah,--" "Snakeroot and cinnamon," chimed in Rachel, looking up from her sewing with a very innocent face. Now that was exactly what the Doctor was going to say, only he was trying to say it very slowly, so that it would sound like something remarkable, and he did not like to have the words taken out of his mouth. No doctor would have liked it.