I may as well explain what Aunt Judith's modesty prevented her from doing; that a "project" was to inclose a certain liquid emanation of the afflicted person in a phial tightly stopped, and to put it over the fire in a pot to boil. Of course, as in the case of the sympathetic remedies described by Sir Kenelm Digby and practised by him, as the contents of the phial boil, the witch burns, and she is inevitably detected by the scorching she gets and the scars it leaves behind. It is from this circumstance, undoubtedly, that the nursery rhyme derives its authority,-- "Hinx minx, the old witch winks, The fat begins to fry," etc. This is precisely the operation of the process in question. "Accordingly," continued Aunt Judith, "the Stout folks made all their preparations, in company with some trusty neighbors; the doors were fastened, and exactly at twelve o'clock the 'project' was begun. Everything went on well; but, as often happens in such cases, something was forgotten, or the witches' master interferes; for it seemed, after a while, that more water was wanted, and one of the company took the pail to go to the well for it. As he cautiously opened the door, there to their horror stood Granny Holt, in the darkness of midnight! She came in grinning and complimenting, and without expressing surprise at finding so many persons together, at such an unusual hour, or making any inquiry as to the reason, she said, 'one of their folks was taken sick and seeing a light there, she had come over to beg some herbs.' There was the end of the _project_, and I don't know as it was ever tried again." "Were you there, yourself?" asked Uncle Richard. "No, I can only swear to the black cat and the burnt pies; but everybody in our neighborhood knew all about the project and Granny Holt's breaking it up." We had become pretty well stirred up by this time, but as is likely to be the case under such circumstances, were eager for whatever other marvel might be forthcoming; for no matter how intelligent or incredulous the circle of hearers may be, there is something strangely fascinating in these weird stories. People may affect indifference "amidst the blazing light of the nineteenth century;" but I think that of a dark night, in a lonely spot, the starting up of so familiar a creature as a white horse, for instance, would set the strongest nerves into perturbation, at the idea of something ghostly. Indeed, Addison declared in his day, that there "was not a village in England that had not a ghost in it; the churchyards were haunted; nor was there a peasant who had not seen a spirit."