"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."