"Pr'ythee, Goody, what think'st ta?" said Dolly Dustit, the little hard-working flax-woman, to Peggy the staid housekeeper at Farmer Robinson's,--"is neighbour Toby growing queerish in his heed, wi' so much book-larning,--or, what the plague can be the matter wi' him? I asked him to tell me what yerbs I should get to mak' a green plaister for our Jack's sore scaup, and he grinned like a fummard, and tell'd ma to gooa to the divvil, and as th' oud lad was a friend o' mine he would mak' ma my plaisters, with a witness! Doesn't ta think he's gone stranny?" "For sartain there's summat the matter wi' his wits, from what our maister was saying about him this morning," answered Peggy; "but who can wonder at it, Dolly? I wonder his knowledge-box hasn't gone wrong-side up'ards many a year since!" "And Maister Robinson has had some foul speech from him, has he, then, Peggy?" asked the little flax-woman, curious to learn more of Toby's vagaries. "Sich foul speech as maks one queer to mention it," replied Peggy, though she evidently wanted to unburthen herself of it to her gossip, and told the shuddering news in the next breath:--"he tell'd th' farmer that his breeches smelled o' brimstone, and he wouldn't put a stitch in 'em to please ayther him, or the divvil his maister!" "The Lord ha' marcy on us, Peggy!" ejaculated the honest little flax-woman, "it's a sore thing to think on; but poor Toby's brain's addled at last, I'm varry sewer. He's as harmless as a lamb, when he's right: one nivver heeard a foul word come out of his mouth. I'm varry sorry for him, Peggy----" and so saying, Dolly Dustit sped on to her daily work in the flax field, more deeply grieved at what she believed to be poor Toby's affliction, than at his repulsive treatment of her application for his medical advice. Such conferences of inquiry, wonder, and regret, began to arise daily, in the ancient little town of Haxey, as Toby advanced further into the spirit and essence of witch-knowing; but the erring philosopher, at length, set the whole village into uproar by telling no less-beloved a personage than Dame Deborah Thrumpkinson, herself, that he believed she was a witch,--nay the queen and ring-leader of all the witches in the Isle of Axholme,--and, to complete his madness, Toby actually strove to eject the venerable old woman from his cottage! Fortunately, his corporal weakness prevented him from effecting the rudeness which he thus attempted; and the hearty old dame, though pitying, rather than censuring his folly, felt disposed to try the effect of a somewhat vigorous reproof of it. Seizing the lean, attenuated student by the collar, she laid him, with one sinewy lift, fairly on his back, breathless and fear-stricken, upon the shop-board.