me as they do the Salem
witches."

He caught her meaning, though he did not fully understand, and manfully
gulped back his sobs.

Another fear came. Hannah had seen the old witch stretch out her hand and
stroke the soft, yellow fur of Old Buff.

"She might have bewitched him," thought the little girl, "but I'll tell
no one."

At noon Hannah's father came in with more trouble to tell of Goody
Walford. Her husband would not let her feed his cattle for fear she would
bewitch them.

After sunset Goodwife Evans, frightened by the reports, came to the
Puddington house and begged that she might stay for the night.

"I am followed by a yellowish cat wherever I go. I am sure 'tis the witch
work of Goody Walford. Oh, don't open that door!" she cried. "It will
come in." She dropped trembling to the settle.

Little Hannah's fright was quite as great in her secret fear that Old
Buff might be the witch-cat. She gasped when she saw her father take his
gun from the wall.

"We'll put an end to these witch-cats," he declared, and stalked out.

Hannah held her breath in fear. She heard no shot, however. At last her
father came in and looked over his gun.

"It wouldn't work," he muttered.

"There is more witchwork going on inside this house," his wife remarked
as she looked over his shoulder at the gun. "Your new stockings that I
finished last week have holes in them already."

When on the following morning a large hole was found under the door that
led to the shed, the family blame was directed to Old Buff. He was
without doubt the yellowish cat that had followed Goodwife Evans. Hannah
had not seen her dearly loved pet since she had left him in the woods the
day before. She feared to have him come home, yet her heart yearned for
Old Buff.

That day it was discovered that much of the homemade soap stored under
the pitch of the roof had disappeared.

"Cat-witchery it surely is!" declared Mrs. Puddington.

Little Hannah, miserably unhappy, tossed in her bed that night. Perhaps
she slept a little. She was, however, quick to awake upon hearing a cry
at her window. Like a flash she bounded out of bed, pushed up the sash,
and pulled in her own dear Buff.

"You're not bewitched, I know you're not, my dear Old Buff. You wouldn't
cry in that same old way if you were! Come quick and let me hide you so
you won't get shot!"

She pushed the cat under the bedclothes and in her happy relief dropped
to sleep.

In the morning Old B