“Did your mother—­my great-grandma—­believe in witches?” asked Prudy.  “What did she say to Mr. Palmer?”

“O, no! she had no faith in witches; thy great grandmother was a sensible woman.”  She said to him, “Friend Asa, thee’d better have some good strong bows made for thy cattle, and put on their necks; and then I think thee’ll find they can’t get out of their stalls.  Thee says they are as lean as Pharaoh’s kine, and I would advise thee to feed them better.  Cattle that are well fed and well cared for will never go bewitched.”

“Did Mrs. Knowles know what people said about her?” asked Prudy.

“Yes; she heard the stories, and it made her feel very badly.”

“How did she look?”

“A little like thy grandmother Parlin, if I remember, only she was much larger.”

“Did she know anything?”

“O, yes; it was rather an ignorant neighborhood; but she was one of the most intelligent women in it.”

“Did she ever go anywhere?”

“Yes; she came to my mother for sympathy.  I remember just how she looked in her tow and linen dress, with her hair fastened at the back of the head with a goose-quill.”

“There, there!” cried Dotty, “that was what made ’em call her a witch!”

“O, no; a goose-quill was quite a common fashion in those times, and a great deal prettier, too, than the waterfalls thee sees nowadays.  Mrs. Knowles dressed like other people, and looked like other people, for aught I know; but I wished she would not come to our house so much.”

“Didn’t you like her?”

“Yes; I liked her very well, for she carried peppermints in a black bag on her arm; but I was afraid the stories were true, and she might bewitch my mother.”

“Why, grandma, I shouldn’t have thought that of you!”

“I was a very small girl then, Prudence; and the children I played with belonged, for the most part, to ignorant families.”

“Grandma was like an apple playing with potatoes,” remarked Dotty, one side to Prudy.

“I used to watch Mrs. Knowles,” continued Mrs. Read, “hoping to see her cry; for they said if she was really a witch, she could shed but three tears, and those out of her left eye.”

“Did you ever catch her crying?”

“Once,” replied grandma, with a smile; “and then she kept her handkerchief at her face.  I was quite disappointed, for I couldn’t tell which eye she cried out of.”

“Please tell some more,” said Dotty.

“They said Mrs. Knowles was often seen in a high wind riding off on a broomstick.  It ought to have been a strong broomstick, for she was a very large woman.”

“Why, grandma,” said Prudy, thrusting her hook into a stitch, “I can’t help thinking what queer days you lived in!  Now, when I talk to my grandchildren, I shall tell them of such beautiful things; of swings and picnics, and Christmas trees.”

“So shall I to my grandchildren,” said Dotty; “but not always.  I shall have to look sober sometimes, and tell ’em how I had the sore throat, and couldn’t swallow anything but boiled custards and cream toast.  ‘For,’ says I, ‘children, it was very different in those days.’”