"Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay."
"Where did he go?" asked George.
"Down to the centre of the earth, probably," replied Mr. Stacy, solemnly. "But it's more to the point that Jenny recovered, and Aunt Nabby was never again known to carry on any of her witcheries."
"Thank you, thank you," cried all the circle, except Priscilla, who still looked as if she thought stories of this kind rather silly.
"Mamma," cried Lucy, after a moment's pause, as if she, too, shared Priscilla's feeling, "let us have something more sensible than witch stories."
"Let us have a charade—you said you had found one in an old book that you would give us."
Mrs. Danforth looked at the clock. "There is just time for one before you go to bed," she said, "and so I will give you the old one you speak of."
George and Lucy clapped their hands with delight. They were fond of guessing-games, particularly when their mother played with them.