Patty had forgotten all about her deep mortification, and never even thought of Deacon Turner, the tithing-man.

"Hark!" whispered she to Mary, "don't you hear 'em walking on the roof of the house?"

"Hear what?" said Mary, sternly.

"Those things Siller calls creeturs—on broomsticks," returned Patty.

"Nonsense; go to sleep, child."

Mary was too well instructed to be really afraid of witches; still she lay awake an hour or two thinking over what Siller had said, and hearing her cough drearily in the next chamber. Little Patty was sleeping sweetly, but Mary's nerves were quivering, she did not know why, and

As she lay wishing herself safe at home in her own bed, there was a sudden noise outside her window,—the sound of heavy footsteps. Who could be walking there at that time of night? If it was a man, he must want to steal. Mary did not for a moment fancy it might be a woman, or a "creetur" on a broomstick,—she was too sensible for that; but you will not wonder that, as she heard the footsteps come nearer and nearer, her heart almost stopped beating from fright. Siller had not coughed for some time, and was very likely asleep. If so, there was no time to be lost.

Mary sprang out of bed, and ran down stairs, whispering, "Fire! Murder! Thieves!"

That wakened Patty, who ran after her, clutching at her night-dress, and crying out, "A fief! A fief!"

For she had lost a front tooth the day before, and could not say "thief."

It was a wonder they both did not fall headlong, going at such speed.

Siller was in the kitchen, standing in the middle of the floor, with a red cloak on, staring straight before her, with a white, scared look.

"Hush, children, for mercy's sake!" she whispered, putting her handkerchief over Patty's mouth, "we're in a terrible fix! It's either thieves or murderers, or else it's witches. Yes, Polly Lyman, witches!"

"I don't hear the steps now," said Mary. "O, yes I do, too; yes I do, too."

By that time there was a loud knocking.

"It must be witches; thieves wouldn't knock," whispered Siller, tearing her back hair. "Hear 'em rattle that door! That was what it meant when I saw that black cat, just before sundown, worritting the doctor's dog. I thought then it was an imp."

The door continued to rattle, and the children's teeth to chatter; also Siller's, all she had left in her head.

"O, if we had a silver bullet," said she, "that would clear 'em out."

Poor little Patty! You may guess at the state of her mind when I tell you she was speechless! For almost the first time in her life she was too frightened to scream.

The knocking grew louder and louder; and Siller, seeing that something must be done, and she was the only one to do it, began to behave like a woman.

"Stop shaking so, children," said she, with a sudden show of courage. "Keep a stiff upper lip! I've got an idea! It may be flesh and blood thieves come after the doctor's chany tea-cups!"

"O, throw them out the window," gasped Mary.

"No, Polly; not while I'm a live woman," replied Siller, who really had some sense when she could forget her fear of hobgoblins. "Into the hampshire, both of you, and let me button you in."

The "hampshire" was a large cupboard, the lower part of which was half filled with boxes and buckets; but the children contrived to squeeze themselves into it.

"It isn't fair, though," said Mary, putting her head out. "I ought to help you, Siller. Give me the shovel and tongs, and I will."

Siller only answered by buttoning the hampshire door.

Patty, feeling safer, screamed "Fief!" once more; and Mary gave her a shaking, which caused the child to bite her tongue; after which Mary hugged and kissed her with the deepest remorse.

Who knew how long either of them had to live? What if the man should break down the kitchen door and get into the house? He was knocking harder than ever, and had been calling out several times,—

"Let me in! Why don't you let me in?"

"There, I do declare, that sounds like Dr. Hilton," whispered Mary to Patty.

And sure enough, next moment the voice of Siller was heard exclaiming, in the utmost surprise,—

"Bless me, doctor, you don't mean to say that's you!"

It was the most welcome sound that the little prisoners in the "hampshire" could possibly have heard. And the laugh, gruff and cracked, which came from the doctor's throat, as soon as he got fairly into the house, was sweeter than the song of a nightingale.

"Let us out! Let us out!" cried they, knocking to be let out as hard as the doctor had knocked to be let in, for Mary was beating the door with a bucket of sugar and Patty with a pewter porringer. But Siller was "all of a fluster," and it was the doctor himself who opened the hampshire doors after the little girls had almost pounded them down.

They were both ashamed to be caught in their night-dresses, and ran up stairs as fast as they could go, but on the way overheard the doctor reproving Siller for giving "those innocent little children such a scare." He was not a wise man, by any means, but he had good common sense.

"It is lucky my wife don't believe in witches," said he, "for I'm as likely to come home late at night as any way, and she'd be in hot water half her time."

Next morning the children were very glad to go home, and Mary, though she would hardly have said so to any one, could not help thinking she should never like Siller Noonin quite so well after this as she had done before.

They were climbing the fence to run across the fields, when some one said,—

"Patience Lyman!"

It was Deacon Turner, the tithing-man; but his voice was very mild this morning, and he did not look like the same man Patty had seen at prayer meeting. His face was almost smiling, and he had a double red rose in his hand.

"Good morning, little ladies," said he, giving the rose to Patty, who blushed as red as the rose herself, and hung her head in bashful shame.

"Thank you, sir," she stammered.

"I can't bring myself to believe you meant to disturb the meetin' last night," said the deacon, taking her unwilling little hand.

"No, O, no!" replied Patty, with dripping eyes.

"It was in the school-'us, but then the school-'us is just as sacred as the meetin'-'us, when it's used for religious purposes. I'm afeared, Patience, you forgot you went there to hold communion 'long of His saints. I'm afeared your mind warn't in a fit state to receive much benefit from the occasion."

Patty felt extremely uncomfortable. Good Deacon Turner seldom took the least notice of children—having none of his own, and no nieces or nephews;—and when he did try to talk to little folks, he always made a sad piece of work of it. He did not know how to put himself in sympathy with them, and could not remember how he used to feel when he was young.

"We shall always be glad to see you at the regular Wednesday evenin' prayer meetin'," said he, "or to the prayer meetin's in the school-'us; but you must remember it ain't like a meetin' for seckler pupposes, Patience,—it's for prayer, and praise, and the singing of psalms; and you should conduct yourself in a circumspect and becoming manner, as is fittin' for the house of worship; and remember and feel that it's a privilege for you to be there."

This was about the way the deacon talked to Patty, and of course she did not understand one word of it. She tells Flyaway Clifford and Dotty Dimple that grown people in old times almost always talked "too old," and children were afraid of them.

"Yes, my child," added the deacon, "you should realize that it is a precious privilege, and feel to say with the Psalmist,—

Patty was crying by this time very loud, and there was a certain babyish sound in her wail which suddenly reminded Deacon Turner that he was talking to a little girl, and not to a young woman.

"There, there, now, don't cry," said he, patting her head, for her sun-bonnet had fallen back on her neck, "you didn't mean to make fun of religion; I'm sartin sure of that."

"No, I di-idn't, or if I did, I di-idn't mean to," almost howled Patty.

A grim smile overspread the deacon's face. The idea of an infant like that making fun of religion!

"Somehow I was thinkin' you was an older child than what you be," said he, rubbing her silky hair as roughly as a plough would go through a bed of flowers. The action almost drove Patty wild, but the good man meant it most kindly.

"Let's see, I suppose you know your letters now?" added he, going to the other extreme, and talking to her as if she were very young indeed. "And, of course, your mother, who is a godly woman, has you say your catechism. Do you remember, my dear, who made you?"

The question caused Patty to raise her tearful eyes in astonishment. Did he think a girl six and a half years old didn't know that?

"Yes, sir," said she, meekly; "God made me."

"Right, my dear; that's well said. You're not such a bad child after all, and seem to have considerable sense. Here is a dollar for you, my little woman, and tell your mother I know she's bringing you up in the way you should go, and I hope when you are old you'll not depart from it."

Patty stared at the dollar through her tears, and it seemed to stare back again with a face almost as big as a full moon.

"O, thank you, sir," said she, with a deep courtesy.

Never in her life had she owned a whole silver dollar before. How it danced and shone! She held it tight, for it did not seem to be real, and she was afraid it would melt or fly away before she could get it home.

"Mother, O mother," cried she, "see this live dollar! Deacon Turner gave it to me for remembering who made me!"

"Why, child, what do you mean?"

"She means just what she says, mother," said Mary. "Deacon Turner spoke to her in prayer meeting last night—"

"Why, Patience!"

"And he was sorry for it, mother, just as Siller thought he'd be; and so he wanted to give her something to make up, I suppose; but should you have thought he'd have given her that dollar?"

Mrs. Lyman was grieved to learn that Patty had been so restless and so irreverent, and called her into the bedroom to talk with her about it.

"My little girl is old enough to begin to think," said she.

"Yes, mother," said Patty, laying the silver dollar against her cheek, "I do think."

"But, Patience, you knew the people had met in that school-house to talk about God; you should have listened to what they were saying."

"But, mamma, the words were too big; I can't understand such big words."

"Well, then, my daughter, you certainly could have sat still, and let other people listen."

Patty hung her head.

"Has a child any right to go where good people are worshipping God, and behave so badly as to disturb them?"

"No, mamma."

Patty was crying again, and almost thought the barn would be the best place for her to live in. Even her "live dollar" could not console her when her mother spoke in such a tone as that.

"I'll never make any more disturbment, mamma," said she, in a broken-hearted tone.

"I hope you'll remember it," said Mrs. Lyman, taking the child's two hands in hers, and pressing them earnestly.

Patty was afraid she was about to deprive her of the precious dollar; but Mrs. Lyman did not do it; she thought Patty would remember without such a hard punishment as that.