d. "Uncle Winthrop thinks I ought to know something
about little girls. Eudora is six months older than I am. They have such
a magnificent swing, four girls can sit in it. Helen is studying French
and the young ladies can talk a little. They do not see how I can talk
so fast."

Doris laughed gleefully. Aunt Priscilla sniffed. Winthrop Adams would
make a flighty, useless girl out of her. And companying so much with
rich people would fill her mind with vanity. Yes, the child would be
ruined!

"And we tell each other stories about _our_ Boston. This Boston," making
a pretty gesture with her hand, "has the most splendid ones about the
war and all, and the ships coming over here almost two hundred years
ago. It is a long while to live one hundred years, even. But I knew
about Mr. Cotton and the lady Arabella Johnston. They had not heard
about the saint and how his body was carried around to make it rain."

"To make it rain! Whose body was it, pray?" asked Aunt Priscilla
sharply, scenting heresy. She was not quite sure but so much French
would shut one out from final salvation. "Did you have saints in Old
Boston?"

"Oh, it was the old Saint of the Church--St. Botolph." Doris hesitated
and glanced up at Uncle Leverett, who nodded. "He was a very, very good
man," she resumed seriously. "And one summer there was a very long
drought. The grass all dried up, the fruit began to fall off, and they
were afraid there would be nothing for the cattle to feed upon. So they
took up St. Botolph in his coffin and carried him all around the town,
praying as they went. And it began to rain."

"Stuff and nonsense! The idea of reasonable human beings believing
that!"

"But you know the prophet prayed for rain in the Bible."

"But to take up his body! Are they doing it now in a dry time?" Aunt
Priscilla asked sarcastically.

"They don't now, but it was said they did it several times, and it
always rained."

"They wan't good orthodox Christians. No one ever heard of such a
thing."

"But our orthodox Christians believed in witches--even the descendants
of this very John Cotton who came over to escape the Lords Bishops,"
said Warren.

"And, unlike Mr. Blacksone, stayed and had a hard time with the Lords
Brethren," said Mr. Leverett. "I hardly know which was the
worst"--smiling with a glint of humor. "And you more than half believe
in witches yourself, Aunt Priscilla."

"I am sure I have reason to. Grandmother Parker was a good woma