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 Poggy, had been, since he 'fell off Cape Horn,' very lame. First he gave up his sea life and, some five years before, all but a nominal interest in his great shipping firm. For years he had been engaged in writing an historical study of Salem witchcraft, 'not that the past really matters, only the future.' Lanice had never heard of this dark chapter in New England history. She urged her cousin to tell her of it in detail, but soon Pauline glanced at her with sly, questioning eyes as if trying to fathom this pretended interest in so unimportant a subject. Yet, for a moment, such was the power of Pauline's tongue, she had actually seen them—stubborn Giles Corey pressed to death for 'standing mute'; the flaunting witch who ran an inn and made her death-dealing poppets of hogs' bristles and human hair; and a poor, ancient gentleman who walked about on two 'staves.'

Lanice saw the gruesome bodies swing upon Gallows Hill against a fleecy spring sky.

'Father is so serious about this history, and only last week the young man who has been helping him left to teach school in Needham.'

Lanice would go with him to the Athenæum—whatever that was—and to Salem. She would copy records, write letters, take down his dictation, for the disaster off Cape Horn that had lamed him had also injured his hand. She could not believe her fabulous good fortune.

'I'll work to the bone, both at my Art and for your father,' she cried. 'It's wonderful. Oh, Cousin Polly,' she exclaimed, using this diminutive for the