A line had been drawn through this
last word, and another word written
above it; but the ink was so faded,
the page so woolly and thin with
use, that it was impossible to decipher
the correction; perhaps it was
"mother-wort," an herb Philly did not know;
or it might be "mandrake"? It looked
as much like one as the other, the writing
was so blurred and dim. "It is
best to take what the book says," Philly
said, simply; "besides, I haven't those
other things in the garden, and I have
monk's-hood and rosemary--if I should
want to do it, just for fun."

"OF MONK'S-HOOD TWO ROOTS, AND OF THE
FLOWER OF CORN TEN THREADS; LET HER SLEEP
ON THEM ONE NIGHT. IN THE MORNING, LET
HER SET THEM ON HER HEART AND WALK BACKWARDS
TEN STEPS, PRAYING FOR THE LOVE OF HER
BELOVED. LET HER THEN STEEP AND BOIL THESE
THINGS IN FOUR GILLS OF PURE WATER ON WHICH
THE MOON HAS SHONE FOR ONE NIGHT. WHEN
SHE SHALL ADD THIS PHILTER TO THE DRINK OF
THE ONE WHO LOVES HER NOT, HE SHALL LOVE
THE FEMALE WHO MEETS HIS EYE FIRST AFTER
THE DRINKING THEREOF. THEREFORE LET THE
YOUNG MAID BE INDUSTRIOUS TO STAND BEFORE
HIM WHEN HE SHALL DRINK IT."