what of that?"

"Thank you kindly, Mr. Moonman!" said Katinka, who was spending the
night on Puff's bed. "I am very sure my dear little mother will do
nothing of the kind. Walnut juice, indeed! and for me, who have the
finest complexion in the doll-house! You might take Sally Bradford, now,
and she would not look more like a witch than she does now; but I am a
French doll, and am not used to such treatment."

"Don't abuse Sally Bradford, Miss!" I said. "She is an excellent doll,
for whom I have a great respect; and as for your fine complexion, why,
we all know that 'handsome is as handsome does;' and I should like to
know who does all the work in the doll-house. But speaking of witches, I
wonder if Puff has ever heard the story of the witch who came to see
little Polly Pemberton. That is a queer story."

"No, I have never heard it, Mr. Moonman!" cried Puff eagerly. "Was it a
real witch? do tell me the story!"

[Illustration]

"Oh! as for being real," I replied, "that is none of my business. My
business is to tell the story which I will do. I heard a little girl in
New Haven, telling it to her brothers and sisters the other night, and
she frightened them half out of their wits. I will try to tell the story
just as she did. Did you know, children, that there were witches in old
times? well, there were, or people thought there were, which came to
much the same thing for the witches. Hear this story, and then see what
you think about the matter.

[Illustration: POLLY PEMBERTON.]

"Well, once there was a little girl, about eight years old. I shall
call her Polly, but you need not feel obliged to follow my example. If
you prefer to call her Kamschatka, I don't mind in the least. This
little girl lived with her father and mother, in a little red cottage
which stood quite by itself near a thick wood. Every day her parents
went to the village, which was a mile or more away, to work, and they
left little Polly in charge of the house, for she was a good and quiet
little girl, and never was lonely or sad. One day Polly was sitting by
the window, knitting, when she saw a queer-looking old woman coming
along the road; such a queer old woman. Have you ever seen a picture of
Cinderella's fairy godmother? well, she looked just like that, pointed
hat, red cloak, and all. When the old woman saw Polly, she stopped, and
looked earnestly at her; then she hobbled slowly up to the door and
knocked. Polly ran and opened the door. "How a