I speak, Phoebe. Father Weight is ninety years old this very month,
and he has carried raisins for forty years, and never had a twinge
of rheumatism in all that time. The same raisins, too; they have
hardened into stone, as you may say, with what they have absorbed. I
don't need to see things clearer than that."

"H'm!" said Miss Phoebe, with the suspicion of a sniff. "Did he ever
have it before?"

"I wasn't acquainted with him before," said Mrs. Weight, stiffly.

There was a pause; then the visitor went on, dropping her voice with
a certain mystery. "You may talk of superstition, Phoebe, but I must
say I'd sooner be what some folks call superstitious than have no
belief at all. I don't wish to reflect upon any person, but I must
say that, in my opinion, Doctor Strong is little better than an
infidel. To see a perishing human creature set himself up against
the Ordering of Providence is a thing I am sorry to meet with in
_this_ parish."

"Has Doctor Strong set himself against Providence?" asked Miss Phoebe,
her back very rigid, her knitting-needles pointed in stern
interrogation.

"You shall judge for yourselves, girls!" Mrs. Weight spoke with
unction. "At the same time, I wish it to be understood that what I
say is for this room only; I am not one to spread abroad. Well! it
has never been doubted, to _my_ knowledge, that the lower animals
are permitted to absorb diseases from children, who have immortal
souls to save. Even Doctor Stedman, who is advanced enough in all