Ye Lyttle Salem Maide

Copyright, 1898, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company

“There, keep ye at that distance. I ken your sly ways.”

[page 75]

Ye Lyttle Salem Maide

A Story of Witchcraft

By
Pauline Bradford Mackie
Author of
“Mademoiselle De Berny: A Story of Valley Forge”

Illustrated by
E. W. D. Hamilton

“This world is very evil,

The times are waxing late”

Lamson, Wolffe and Company
Boston, New York and London
MDCCCXCVIII

Copyright, 1898,
By Lamson, Wolffe and Company.

All rights reserved.

The Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

To Alice

IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF OLD DAYS AT ENGLEWOOD

Contents

List of Illustrations

Ye Lyttle Salem Maide

Chapter I
A Meeting in the Forest

Over two centuries ago a little Puritan maiden might have been seen passing along the Indian path which led from out Salem Town to her home. It was near the close of day. The solemn twilight of the great primeval forest was beginning to fall. But the little maid tripped lightly on, unawed, untroubled. From underneath her snowy linen cap, with its stiffly starched ear-flaps, hung the braid of her hair, several shades more golden than the hue of her gown. Over one arm she carried her woollen stockings and buckled shoon.

A man, seated near the path on the trunk of a fallen tree of such gigantic girth that his feet swung off the ground, although he was a person of no inconsiderable size, hailed her as she neared him. “Where do you wend your way in such hasty fashion, little mistress?”

She paused and bobbed him a very fine courtesy, such as she had been taught in the Dame School, judging him to be an important personage by reason of his sword with its jewelled hilt and his plumed hat. “I be sorely hungered, good sir,” she replied, “and I ken that Goody Higgins has a bowl o’ porridge piping hot for me in the chimney corner.” Her dimpled face grew grave; her eyelids fell. “When one for a grievous sin,” she added humbly, “has stood from early morn till set o’ sun on a block o’ wood beside the town-pump, and has had naught to eat in all that time, one hungers much.”

“And would they put a maid like you up for public punishment?” cried the Cavalier. “By my faith, these Puritans permit no children. They would have them saints, lisping brimstone and wrestling with Satan!”

“Hush, hush!” cried the little maid, affrighted. “Ye must not say that word lest the Devil answer to his name.” She pointed to where the sunset glimmered red behind the trees. “Do ye not ken that when the sun be set, the witches ride on broomsticks? After dark all good children stay in the house.”

“Ho, ho!” laughed the stranger; “and have you a law that witches must not ride on broomsticks? You Puritans had best be wary lest they ride your nags to death at night and you take away their broomsticks.”

“Ay,” assented the maid. “Old Goody Jones is to be hanged for witchery this day week. One morn, who should find his nag steaming, flecked with foam, its mane plaited to make the bridle, but our good Neighbour Root. When I heard tell o’ it, I cut across the clearing to his barn before breakfast, and with my own eyes saw the nag with its plaited mane and tail. Neighbour Root suspicioned who the witch was that had been riding it, but he, being an o’er-cautious man, kept a close mouth. Well, at dawn, two days later, he jumped wide-awake all in a minute,—he had been sleeping with an eye half-cocked, as it were,—for he heard the barn door slam. He rose and lit his lantern and went out. There he saw Goody Jones hiding in a corner of the stall, her eyes shining like a cat’s. When she saw he kenned her, she gave a wicked screech and flew by him in the form o’ an owl. He was so afeared lest she should bewitch him, that he trembled till his red cotton nightcap fell off. It was found in the stall by our goodly magistrate in proof o’ Neighbour Root’s words.”

The Cavalier’s face grew grim. “Ay,” he muttered, “the Lord will yet make these people repent the innocent blood they shed. Hark ye, little mistress, I have travelled in far countries, where they have the Black Plague and terrible diseases ye wot not of. Yet this plague of witchery is worse than all,—ay, even than the smallpox.” He shrugged his shoulders and looking down at the ground, frowned and shook his head. But as he glanced up at the maid’s troubled countenance, his gloom was dispelled by a sunny smile. He reached out and took her hand, and patted it between his big warm palms.

“Dear child,” he said, “be not afeared of witches, but bethink yourself to keep so fair and shining a conscience that Satan and his hags who work by the powers of darkness cannot approach you. We have a play-actor in England, a Merry Andrew of the town, a slender fellow withal, yet possessed of a pretty wit, for wit, my little maid, is no respecter of persons, and springs here and there, like as one rose grows in the Queen’s garden and another twines ’round the doorway of the poor. Well, this fellow has written that, ‘far as a little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.’ Many a time have I catched myself smiling at the jingle, for it minds me of how all good children are just so many little candles shining out into the black night of this evil world. When you are older grown you will perceive that I spake true words. Still, regarding witches, I would not have you o’er bold nor frequent churchyards by night, for there, I, myself, have seen with these very eyes, ghosts and wraiths pale as blue vapour standing by the graves. And at cockcrow they have flown away.” He released her hand. “Come now,” he said lightly, “you have not told me why you were made to stand on a block of wood all day.”

“Good sir,” she replied, “my punishment was none too heavy, for my heart had grown carnal and adrift from God, and the follies and vanities o’ youth had taken hold on me. It happed in this wise. Goodwife Higgins, who keeps our home since my dear mother went to God, be forever sweethearting me because I mind her o’ her own little girl who died o’ the smallpox. So she made me this fair silken gown out o’ her wedding-silk brought from England. Ye can feel for yourself, good sir, if ye like, that it be all silk without a thread o’ cotton in it. Now, Abigail Brewster, whose father be a godly man, telled him that when I passed her going to meeting last Sabbath morn, I switched my fair silken gown so that it rustled in an offensive manner in her ears. So the constable came after me, and I was prosecuted in court for wearing silk in an odious manner. The Judge sentenced me to stand all day on the block, near the town-pump, exposed to public gaze in my fine raiment. Also, he did look at me o’er his spectacles in a most awesome, stern, and righteous fashion, for he said I ‘drew iniquity with a cord o’ vanity and sin with a cart-rope.’ Then he read a stretch from the Bible, warning me to repent, lest I grow like those who ‘walk with outstretched necks, mincing as they go.’” She sighed: “Ye ken not, sir, how weary one grows, standing on a block, blinking o’ the sun, first resting on your heels, then tipping forward on your toes, and finding no ease. About the tenth hour, as I could see by the sun-dial, there comes Abigail Brewster walking with her father. When I catched sight o’ him I put my hands over my face, and weeped with exceeding loud groans to show him I heartily repented my wickedness in the sight o’ God. But he, being spiritually minded at the time, had no thought for a sinner like me and went on. Now, I was peeking out betwixt my fingers, and I saw Abigail Brewster had on her gown o’ sad-coloured linsey-woolsey. Her and me gave one another such a look! For we were both acquainted like with the fact that that sad-coloured linsey-woolsey petticoat and sacque were her meeting-house clothes, her father, as I telled ye, having no patience for the follies o’ dress. Beshrew me, sir,” added the little maid, timidly, “but I cannot refrain from admiring your immoderate great sleeves with the watchet-blue tiffany peeping through the slashes.”

“Sit you down beside me, little mistress,” said the Cavalier, “I would ask a question of you. Ho, ho, you are afeared of witches! Why, see the sunset still glimmers red. Have you not a wee bit of time for me, who am in sore perplexity and distress?”

“Nay, nay, good sir,” she rejoined sweetly, “I be no afeared o’ witches when I can assist a soul in sore distress, for as ye telled me, a witch cannot come near one who be on a good errand.”

She climbed up on the trunk and seated herself beside him, swinging her sturdy, bare feet beside his great high boots.

“Can you keep a close mouth, mistress?” asked the Cavalier.

She nodded. Irresistibly, as her companion remained silent a moment in deep thought, her fingers went out and stroked his velvet sleeve. She sighed blissfully and folded her hands in her lap.

“I was telled by a countryman up the road that there is a house in your town which has been recently taken by a stranger. ’Tis a house, I am informed, with many gables and dormer windows.” The speaker glanced sharply at his companion. “Do you hap to know the place?”

“Yea, good sir,” she replied eagerly; “the gossips say it be a marvel with its fine furnishings, though none o’ the goodwives have so much as put their noses inside the door, the master being a stern, unsocial body. But the Moorish wench who keeps his home has blabbed o’ Turkey covers and velvet stool cushions. Ye should hear tell—”

“What sort of looks has this fine gentleman,” interrupted the Cavalier; “is he of lean, sour countenance—”

She nodded.

“Crafty-eyed, tall—”

“Nay, not so tall,” she broke in; “about as ye be in height, but not so great girth ’round the middle. The children all run from him when he strolls out at even-tide, tapping with his stick, and frowning. Our magistrate and minister hold him in great respect as one o’ wit and learning, with mickle gold from foreign parts. The naughty boys call him Old Ruddy-Beard, for aught ye can see o’ his face be the tip o’ his long nose ’neath the brim o’ his beaver-hat and his red beard lying on his white ruff. Also he wears a cape o’ sable velvet, and he be honoured with a title, being called Sir Jonathan Jamieson.”

During her description the Cavalier had nodded several times, and when she finished, his face was not good to look at. His eyes, which had been so genial, were now cold and shining as his sword.

“Have I found you at last, oh mine enemy,” he exulted, “at last, at last?”

Thus he muttered and talked to himself, and his smile was not pleasant to see. Glancing at the little maid, he perceived she was startled and shrank from him. He patted her shoulder.

“Now, hark ye, mistress,” he whispered, “when next you pass this man, say softly these words to greet his ears alone: ‘The King sends for his black powder.’”

“Perchance he will think me a witch and I say such strange words to him,” she answered, drawing away; “some say no one be more afeared o’ witches than he.”

The Cavalier flung back his head. His laughter rang out scornfully. “Ho, ho,” he mocked, “afeared of witches, lest they carry off his black heart! He be indeed a lily-livered scoundrel! Ay, care not how much you do fright him. At first he will doubtless pretend not to hear you, still I should not be surprised and he pause and demand where you heard such words, but you must say naught of all this, e’en though he torment you with much questioning. I am on my way now to Boston Town. In a few days I shall return.” He tapped her arm. “Ay, I shall return in state, in state, next time, little mistress. Meanwhile, you must keep faith with me. Let him not suspicion this meeting in the forest with me.” He bent his head and whispered several sentences in her ear.

“Good sir,” said the little maid, solemnly, when he had finished, “my King be next to God and I will keep the faith. But now and ye will be pleased to excuse me, as it be past the supper hour, I will hasten home.” Saying which, she slipped down from the trunk of the tree and bobbed him a courtesy.

“Nay, not so fast, not so fast away,” he cried. “I would show you a picture of my sweetest daughter, Elizabeth, of whom you mind me, giving me a great heart-sickness for her bonny face far across the seas in Merry England.” From inside his doublet he drew forth a locket, swung on a slender gold chain, and opened it. Within was a miniature on ivory of a young girl in court dress, with dark curls falling about a face which smiled back at them in the soft twilight.

“She be good to look upon and has a comely smile, I wot,” said the little Puritan maid; “haps it she has seen as many summers as I, who be turned fourteen and for a year past a teacher in the Dame School.”

“Sixteen summers has she lived,” answered the Cavalier. “Eftsoons, she will count in gloomier fashion, for with years come woes and we say so many winters have we known. But how comes it you are a teacher in the Dame School?”

“A fair and flowing hand I write,” she replied, “though I be no great for spelling. My father has instilled a deal o’ learning into my pate, but I be not puffed up with vanity on that account.”

“’Tis well,” said the Cavalier; “I like not an unread maid. Neither do I fancy one too much learned.” He glanced again at the miniature. From smiling he fell to sighing. “Into what great girls do our daughters grow,” he murmured; “but yesterday, methinks, I dandled her on my knee and sang her nursery rhymes.” He opened a leathern bag strapped around his waist. Within it the little maid caught a glimpse of a gleaming array of knives both large and small. This quite startled her.

“Where did I put them?” he frowned; “but wait, but wait—” He felt in his pockets, and at last drew forth a chain of gold beads wrapped in silk. “My Elizabeth would give you these were she here,” he said, “but she is far across the seas.”

Rising, he bent and patted the little maid’s cheek. “Take these beads, dear child, and forget not what I telled you, while I am gone to Boston Town. Yet, wait, what is your name?”

“Deliverance Wentworth,” she answered. With confidence inspired anew by the kindly face, she added, “I have a brother in Boston Town, who be a Fellow o’ Harvard. Should ye hap to cross his path, might ye be pleased to give him my dutiful love? He be all for learning, and carries a mighty head on young shoulders.”

Then with another courtesy she turned and fled fearfully along the path, for the red of the sunset had vanished.

Far, far above her gleamed two or three pale silver stars. The gloom of twilight was rising thickly in the forest. Bushes stretched out goblin arms to her as she passed them. The rustling leaves were the whisperings of wizards, beseeching her to come to them. A distant stump was a witch bending over to gather poisonous herbs.

At last she reached her home. A flower-bordered walk led to the door. The yard was shut in by a low stone wall. The afterglow, still lingering on the peaked gables of the house, was reflected in the diamond-paned windows and on the knocker on the front door. There was no sign of life. Save for the spotless neatness which marked all, the place had a sombre and uninhabitable air, as if the forest, pressing so closely upon the modest farmstead, flung over it somewhat of its own gloom and sadness.

Deliverance hesitated a moment at the gate. Her fear of the witches was great, but—she glanced at the gold beads.

“I will say a prayer all the way,” she murmured, and ran swiftly along the path a goodly distance, then crossed a belt of woods, pausing neither in running nor in prayerful words, until she reached a hollow oak. In it Deliverance placed the beads wrapped in their bit of silk.

“For,” she reasoned, “if father, though I be no so afeared o’ father, but if Goodwife Higgins set her sharp eyes on them, I should have a most awesome, weary time with her trying to find out where I got them.”

She was not far from the sea and she could see the tide coming in, a line of silver light breaking into foam. Passing along the path which led to Boston Town, she saw the portly figure of the Cavalier, the rich colours of his dress faintly to be descried. An Indian guide had joined him. Both men were on foot. Deliverance, forgetful of the witches, the darkening night, watched the travellers as long as she could see them against the silver sea. At a fordways the Cavalier paused, and the Indian stooped and took him on his back. This glimpse of her merry acquaintance, being thus carried pickapack across the stream, was the last glimpse she had of him for many days to follow. Once she thought he waved his hand to her as he turned his head and glanced behind him. In this she was mistaken. He could not have seen the demure figure of the little Puritan maiden, standing in the deep dusk of the forest edge.

Chapter II
Sir Jonathan’s Warning

Although it was an evening in early June, the salt breeze blowing damp and cold from off the sea made Master Wentworth’s kitchen, with its cheerful fire, an agreeable place for the goodwives of the village to gather with their knitting after supper.

Goodwife Higgins, seated at her spinning-wheel, made but brief replies to the comments of her guests upon the forward behaviour of her foster-child Deliverance. Yet her glance was ever cast anxiously toward the door, swung half-open lest the room should become too warm.

“I trow the naughty baggage deserved correction to put to such ungodly use the fair silk ye gave her,” remarked one portly dame. “Goody Dennison says as it was your standing-up gown ye brought from England to be wed in.”

“Ay,” said Goodwife Higgins, grimly. Her face lighted as she spoke, for the door was flung wide and the little maid of whom they spoke entered, breathless with running.

“It be time ye were in,” frowned Goodwife Higgins, a note of relief in her sharp tone. “I gan to think a witch had catched ye.”

“Come, come, child, stand out and let us see those fine feathers which have filled your foolish pate with vanity,” cried Goody Dennison.

Deliverance sighed profoundly. “I do repent deeply that iniquity and vanity should have filled my carnal heart because o’ this fair gown o’ silk. Ye can feel for yourself and ye like, Goody Dennison, there be no thread o’ cotton in it.”

As she spoke she glanced out of the corners of her downcast eyes at a little, rosy, freckled girl, who sat at her mother’s side, knitting, but who did not look up, keeping her sleek brown head bent resolutely over the half-finished stocking.

“Have ye had aught to eat, child?” asked Goodwife Higgins.

Deliverance shook her head.

“And ye would go off with but a sup o’ milk for breakfast,” scolded the goodwife, as she rose and stirred the porridge she had saved. “Sit ye down by Abigail, and I will bring ye summat nourishing.”

Now, Deliverance had stood long in the hot sun with naught to eat, and this and her long walk so weighed upon her that suddenly she grew pale and sank to the floor.

“Dear Goody,” she murmured faintly, “the Lord has struck my carnal heart with the bolt o’ His righteous anger, for I wax ill.”

That the welfare, if not the pleasure, of their children lay very close to the hearts of the Puritans, was shown by the manner in which the goodwives, who had greeted Deliverance with all due severity, dropped their knitting and gathered hastily around her.

“It be too long a sentence for a growing child, and it behooves us who are mothers to tell our godly magistrate so,” grumbled one hard-featured dame.

“Dear child,” murmured a rosy-cheeked young wife, who had put her baby down to assist Deliverance, “here be a sugar-plum I brought ye. We must have remembrance, gossips,” she added, “that her mother has long been dead, though Goodwife Higgins cares for her and that be well, Master Wentworth being a dreamer. Ye ken, gossips, I say it with no malice, the house might go to rack and ruin, for aught he would care, with his nose ever in the still-room.”

“Best put the child in the chimney-corner where it be warm,” suggested Goody Dennison; “beshrew me, gossips, the damp o’ these raw spring nights chills the marrow in your bones more than the frosts o’ winter.”

So Deliverance was seated on a stool next to Abigail Brewster, with Goodwife Higgins’ apron tied around her neck, a pewter bowl of steaming hasty-pudding in her lap, a mug of milk conveniently near.

The goodwives, their attention taken from the little maid, turned their conversation upon witchcraft, and as they talked, sturdy voices shook and florid faces blanched at every gust of wind in the chimney.

“Abigail,” whispered Deliverance, “did ye e’er clap eyes on Goody Jones sith she became a witch?”

“Never,” answered Abigail. “Father telled me to run lest she give me the malignant touch. Oh dear, I have counted my stitches wrong.”

The humming of Goodwife Higgins’ spinning-wheel made a musical accompaniment to all that was said. And the firelight dancing over the spinner’s ruddy face and buxom figure made of her a pleasant picture as she guided the thread, her busy foot on the treadle.

Ah, what tales were told around the fireplace of the New England kitchen where centred all homely cheer and comfort, and the gossips’ tongues wagged fast as the glancing knitting-needles flashed! High in the yawning chimney, from ledge to ledge, stretched the great lugpole, made from green wood that it might not catch fire. From it swung on hooks the pots and kettles used in cooking. Bright andirons reflected the dancing flames and on either side were the settles. From the heavy rafters were festooned strings of dried fruit, small yellow and green squashes, scarlet peppers. Sand was scattered over the floor. Darkness, banished by the firelight, lurked in the far corners of the room.

Abigail and Deliverance, to all outward appearance absorbed in each other’s society, were none the less listening with ears wide open to whatever was said. Near them sat young wife Tucker that her baby might share the warmth of the fire. It lay on her lap, its little red hands curled up, the lashes of its closed eyes sweeping its cheeks. A typical Puritan baby was this, duly baptized and given to God. A wadded hood of gray silk was worn closely on its head, its gown, short-sleeved and low-necked, was of coarse linen bleached in the sun and smelling sweetly of lavender. The young wife tilted it gently on her knees, crooning psalms if it appeared to be waking, the while her ever busy hands were knitting above it. Once she paused to touch the round cheek fondly with her finger.

“Ye were most fortunate, Dame Tucker,” said one of the gossips, observing the tender motion, “to get him back again.”

“Ay,” answered the young wife, “the Lord was merciful to the goodman and myself. Ne’er shall I cease to have remembrance o’ that wicked morn. I waked early and saw a woman standing by the cradle. ‘In God’s name, what come you for?’ I cried, and thereat she vanished. I rose; O woeful sight these eyes beheld! The witches had taken away my babe and put in its stead a changeling.” The young wife shuddered, and dropped her knitting to clasp her baby to her breast. “Long had I been feared o’ such an evil and ne’er oped my eyes at morn save with fear lest the dread come true. Ye ken, gossips, a witch likes best a first bairn. There the changeling lay in my baby’s crib, a puny, fretful, crying wean, purple o’ lips and white o’ cheeks. Quick the goodman went out and got me five eggs from the black hen, and we burnt the shells and fried the yolks, and with a jar o’ honey (for a witch has a sweet tooth) put the relishes where she might find them and be pacified. She took them not. All that day and the next I wept sorely. Yet with rich milk I fed the fretting wean, feeling pity for it in my heart though it was against me to hush it to sleep in my arms. The night o’ the second day the goodman slept heavily, for he was sore o’ heart an’ weary. But the changeling would not hush its wailing, so I rose and rocked it until worn out by much grief I fell asleep, my head resting on the hood o’ the crib. When I oped my eyes in the darkness the crying was like that o’ my own babe. I hushed my breath to listen.

“Quick I got a tallow dip and lighted it for to see what was in the crib. I fell on my knees and prayed. The witches had brought back my bairn, and taken their fretting wean away.”

“How looked it?” asked Deliverance, eagerly. She never wearied hearing of the changeling, and her interest was as fresh at the third telling of the story as at the first. And, although under most circumstances she would have been chidden for speaking out before her elders, she escaped this time, so interested were the goodwives in the tale.

“Full peaked and wan it looked,” answered the young wife, solemnly, “and blue it was from hunger and cold, for no witches’ food will nourish a baptized child.”

“I should have liked to see where the witches took it, shouldn’t ye?” whispered Abigail to Deliverance.

“Abigail,” said Deliverance, in a cautious whisper, although the humming of the spinning-wheel almost drowned her voice, “if ye will be pleasant-mouthed and not run tittle-tattling upon me again, perchance I will tell ye summat, only it would make your eyes pop out o’ your head. Ye be that simple-minded, Abigail! And I might show ye summat too, only I misdoubt ye have a carnal heart which longs too much on things that glitter. Here, ye can bite off the end o’ my sugar-plum. Now, whisper no word o’ what I tell ye,” putting her mouth to the other’s ear, “I be on a service for his majesty, King George.”

A door leading from an inner room into the kitchen opened and a man came out. He was tall and hollow-chested and stooped slightly. His flaxen wig, parted in the centre, fell to his shoulders on either side of his hatchet-shaped face. He had mild blue eyes. His presence diffused faint odours of herbs and dried flowers and fragrance of scented oils. This sweet atmosphere, surrounding him wherever he went, heralded his presence often before he appeared.

“Has Deliverance returned, Goodwife Higgins?” he asked. “I need her to find me the yarrow.”

“And do ye think I would not have the child housed at this hour o’ night?” queried the goodwife, sharply; “your father needs ye, Deliverance. Ye ken, gossips,” she added in a softened voice, as Master Wentworth retired, “that the poor man has no notion o’ what be practicable. It be fair exasperating to a decent, well-providing body to care for him.”

Deliverance hastily set the porridge bowl on the hearth, and followed her father into the still-room.

Next to the kitchen the still-room was the most important one in the house. Here were kept all preserves and liquors, candied fruits and spices. From the rafters swung bunches of dried herbs, the gathering and arrangement of which was Deliverance’s especial duty. From early spring until Indian summer did she work to make these precious stores. With the melting of the snows, when the Indian women boiled the sweet waters of the maple, she went forth to hunt for winter-green. Together she and her father gathered slippery-elm and sassafras bark. Then, green, fragrant, wholesome, appeared the mints. Also there were mysterious herbs which grew in graveyards and must be culled only at midnight. And there was the blessed thistle, which no good child ever plucked before she sang the verse:—

“Hail, to thee, holy herb,

Growing in the ground,

On the Mount of Calvarie,

First wert thou found.

Thou art good for many a grief

And healest many a wound,

In the name of Sweet Jesu,

I lift thee from the ground.”

And there were saffron, witch-hazel, rue, shepherd’s-purse, and bloody-dock, not to mention the yearly store of catnip put away for her kitten.

Master Wentworth swung her up on his shoulder so she could reach the rafters.

“The yarrow be tied fifth bunch on the further beam, father,” she said; “there, ye have stopped right under it.”

Her small fingers quickly untied the string and the great bunch of yarrow was in her arms as her father set her down. He handed her a mortar bowl and pestle.

“Seat yourself, Deliverance,” he said, “and pound this into a paste for me.”

Vigorously Deliverance pounded, anxious to return to Abigail.

The room was damp and chilly. No heat came in from the kitchen for the door was closed, but the little Puritan maiden was inured to the cold and minded it not. The soft light that filled the room was given by three dipped candles made from the fragrant bayberry wax. This wax was of a pale green, almost transparent colour, and gave forth a pleasant fragrance when snuffed. An hour-glass was placed behind one of the candles that the light might pass through the running sands and enable one to read the time at a glance. At his table as he worked, her father’s shadow was flung grotesquely on the wall, now high, now low. Into the serene silence the sound of Deliverance’s pounding broke with muffled regularity.

“I am telled, Master Wentworth,” said a harsh voice, “that your dear and only daughter, Deliverance, be given o’er to vanity. Methinks, the magistrate awarded her too light a sentence for her idle flauntings. As I did chance to meet him at the tavern, at the nooning-hour, I took it upon myself to tell him, humbly, however, and in no spirit of criticism, that too great a leniency accomplishes much evil.”

Deliverance fairly jumped, so startled was she by the unexpected voice. Now for the first time she perceived a gentleman, in a sable cape, his booted legs crossed, and his arms folded on his breast, as he sat in the further corner of the room. One side of his face was hidden from view by the illuminated hour-glass, but the light of the concealed candle cast so soft and brilliant a glow over his figure that she was amazed at not having seen him before. His red beard rested on the white ruff around his neck. She could see but the tip of his long nose beneath his steeple-crowned hat. Yet she felt the gaze of those shadowed eyes fixed upon her piercingly. None other than Sir Jonathan Jamieson was he, of whom the stranger in the forest had made inquiry.

As she remembered the words she was commissioned to say to this man, her heart throbbed fast with fear. She ceased pounding. Silently she prayed for courage to keep her promise and to serve her King.

At Sir Jonathan’s words, Master Wentworth glanced up with a vague smile, having barely caught the drift of them.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “women are prone to care for fol-de-rols. Still, I have seen fine dandies in our sex. I am minded of my little girl’s dear mother, who never could abide this bleak country and our sad Puritan ways, sickening for longing of green old England.” He sighed. “Yet,” he added hastily, “I criticise not our godly magistrate’s desire to crush out folly.” He turned and peered into the mortar bowl. “You are slow at getting that smooth, daughter.”

Deliverance commenced pounding again hurriedly. Although she looked straight into the bowl she could see plainly that stern figure in the further corner, the yellow candle-light touching brilliantly the red beard and white ruff. She trembled and doubted her courage to give him the message.

Copyright, 1898, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company

“Take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

[page 33]

But there was staunch stuff in this little Puritan maid, and as her father’s guest rose to depart and was about to pass her on his way to the door, she looked up.

“Good sir,” she whispered, “the King sends for his black powder.”

Thereat Sir Jonathan jumped, and his jaw fell as if he had been dealt an unexpected blow. He looked down at her as if he beheld a much more terrible sight than a little maid, whose knees knocked together with trembling so that the mortar bowl danced in her lap, and whose frightened blue eyes never left his face in their fascinated stare of horror at her own daring. A moment he stared back at her, then muttering, he hurried out into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him.

“Gossips,” he cried harshly, “take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

With that, wrapping his cape of sable velvet around him, and with a swing of his black stick, he flung wide the kitchen door, and passed out into the night.

“Father,” asked Deliverance, timidly, “how haps it that Sir Jonathan comes this way?”

Master Wentworth answered absent-mindedly, “What, daughter, you are concerned about Sir Jonathan. Yes, yes, run and get him a mug of sweet sack and you like. Never let it be said I sent from my door rich or poor, without offering him cheer.”

“Nay, father,” she protested, “I but asked—”

“Let me see,” murmured Master Wentworth; “to eight ounces of orris root, add powdered cuttle-bone of like quantity, a gill of orange-flower water. What said you, child,” interrupting himself, “a mug of sack for Sir Jonathan. Run quickly and offer it to him lest he be gone.”

Reluctantly, Deliverance opened the door and stepped out into the kitchen. Sir Jonathan had been gone several moments. She was astonished to see the goodwives had risen and were huddled together in a scared group with blanched faces, all save Goodwife Higgins, who stood alone at her spinning-wheel. The eyes of all were directed toward the still-room. The baby, clutched tightly to its fearful young mother’s breast, wailed piteously.

Deliverance, abashed although she knew not why, paused when half-way across the room.

“Look ye, gossips,” cried one, “look at the glint o’ her een.”

To these Puritan dames the extreme beauty which the solitary childish figure acquired in the firelight was diabolical. The reflection of the dancing flames made a radiant nimbus of her fair, disordered hair, and brought out the yellow sheen in the silken gown. Her lips were scarlet, her cheeks glowed, while her soft eyes, wondrously blue and clear, glanced round the circle of faces. Before that innocent and astonished gaze, first one person and then another of the group cowered and shrank, muttering a prayer.

Through the door, swung open by the wind, swept a terrible gust, and with it passed in something soft, black, fluttering, which circled three times around the room, each time drawing nearer to Deliverance, until at last it dropped and fastened itself to her hair.

Shrieking, the women broke from each other, and ran from the room, all save Goodwife Higgins, who clapped her apron over her head, and fell to uttering loud groans.

Master Wentworth came out from the still-room, a bunch of yarrow under one arm, and holding the mortar bowl.

“What ungodly racket is this?” he asked. “Is a man to find no peace in his own house?”

Upon hearing his voice, Goodwife Higgins’ fright somewhat abated. She drew down her apron, and pointed speechlessly to Deliverance who was rigid with terror.

“Lord bless us!” cried the goodman. “Have you no wits at all, woman?” He laid the bowl on the table, unconsciously letting the herbs slip to the floor, and hastened to Deliverance’s assistance.

“You have catched a bird, daughter, but no singing-bird, only a loathsome bat. Why, Deliverance, weep not. My little Deliverance, there is naught to be frightened at. ’Tis a very pitiful thing,” he continued, lapsing into his musing tone, while his long fingers drew the fair hair from the bat’s claws with much deftness, “how some poor, pitiful creatures be made with nothing for to win them grace and kind looks, only a hideous body, so that silly women scatter like as a viper had come amongst them; and yet, even the vipers and toads have jewelled eyes, did one but look for them.”

He crossed the room, and put the bat outside, then bolted the door for the night.

“I am minded of your dear mother, daughter,” he said, a tender smile on his face; “she was just so silly about some poor, pitiful creature which had no fine looks for to win it smiles. But she was ay bonny to the poor, Deliverance, and has weeped o’er many a soul in distress.”

Chapter III
The Yellow Bird

Goodwife Higgins, who kept the home for the little maid and her father, rose early the next day before the sun was up. The soft light of dawn filled the air; the eastern sky was breaking rosily. A moment, she stood in the doorway, inhaling with delight the fresh, delicious air, noting how the dew lay white as hoar-frost on the grass. She made the fire and put the kettle on to boil, filling it first with water from the spring. Then she went to Deliverance’s room to awaken her, loath to do so, for she felt the little maid had become very weary the previous day. To her surprise she found the small hooded bed empty.

“The dear child,” smiled the goodwife, “she has gone to gather strawberries for her father’s breakfast. She repents, I perceive, her unchastened heart, and seeks to pleasure me by an o’er amount o’ promptness.”

She turned to fling back the covers of the bed that they might air properly. This, however, had already been done. On the window-ledge a little yellow bird sat preening its feathers. It looked at her with its bright, black eyes and continued its dainty toilet undisturbed. Now, this was strange, for as every one knew, the wild canary was a shy bird and flew away at the least approach. The goodwife grew pale, for she feared she was in the presence of a witch, knowing that witches often took upon themselves the forms of yellow birds, that they might by such an innocent and harmless seeming, accomplish much evil among unsuspecting persons. She tiptoed out of the room, and returned with her Bible as a protection against any spell the witch might cast upon her.

“Ye wicked one,” she cried, and her voice shook, “ye who have given yourself over from God to the Devil, get ye gone from this godly house!”

At these words the bird flew away, proving it beyond doubt to be possessed by an evil spirit, for it is known that a witch cannot bear to hear the name of the Lord. The goodwife was yet more affrighted to see the bird fly in the woods in the direction in which the strawberry patch lay. There Deliverance probably was. What power could avail against the witch casting a malignant spell upon her? She leaned out of the window, calling,—

“Deliverance, Deliverance, come into the house! There be a witch abroad. Deliverance, oh, Deliverance!”

Several moments passed. At last to her anxious gaze appeared Deliverance, tripping out of the green woods from the direction in which the bird had flown. She was attired in her tiffany gown, and there was that about the yellow sheen of the fair silk and the long braid of her yellow hair which made her seem like the yellow bird in human form. The first rays of the sun struck aslant her head. She was singing, and as she sang she smiled. She could not have gone to gather berries, for she carried neither basket nor dish. It was evident she had not heard her name called, for she paused startled and abashed, and the singing words died on her lips, when she saw the dame leaning out of the window.

“Deliverance, ye naughty baggage,” cried the goodwife, sharply, “where have ye been and what for have ye on your gown o’ tiffany?”

The words were stern, but her heart was beating like to break and throbbed in unison with Sir Jonathan’s warning the previous night. “Gossips, take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.” She hurried to the kitchen door to meet Deliverance. As the little maid shamefacedly crossed the threshold she raised her hand to strike her, but dropped it to her side and shook her head, for in her heart she said sadly, “And gin ye be a witch, child, sore will be your punishment and my hand shall add no blow.” For she was minded of her own little girl who had died of the smallpox so many years ago. She prepared the breakfast with more bustle and noise than usual, as was her wont when disturbed.

Deliverance, greatly mortified at having been detected and wondering why she was not questioned, went to her room and put on her linsey-woolsey petticoat and sacque.

When she came out to lay the table, to her surprise, Goodwife Higgins spoke her gently. “Go, child, and call your father, for the Indian bread be right crusty and brown and the bacon crisp.”

Deliverance opened the still-room door. Master Wentworth, attired in his morning-gown, was preparing his work for the day. He was celebrated in Boston Town for his beauty and honey waters as well as for his diet-drinks. Recently, he had had a large order from the Governor’s lady—who had many vanities and was very fine indeed—for balls of sweet gums and oils, which, wrapped in geranium leaves, were to be burned on coals to perfume the room.

This morning no accustomed sweet odour greeted Deliverance. Pungent, disagreeable fumes rose from the bowl over which her father bent. So absorbed was he in this experiment that he did not answer until she had called him several times.

Then he greeted her kindly and the two walked out to breakfast. Goodwife Higgins watched Deliverance narrowly while grace was said and her heart grew lighter to behold the little maid listen devoutly, her head humbly bowed, as she said “amen” with fervour. Nevertheless, Sir Jonathan’s words rang in the dame’s ears all day: “Gossips, take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

Even the cream was bewitched. The butter would not come until she had heated a horseshoe red-hot and hung it over the churn. Also, three times a mouse ran across the floor.

Deliverance hurried through her morning chores, anxious to reach the town’s highway before school called, that she might see the judges go riding by to court, then being held in Salem. A celebrated trial of witches was going on. In the front yard she found Goodwife Higgins weeding the flower-bed.

“Be a good child, Deliverance,” said the dame, looking up with troubled face, for she was much perplexed over the unseemly conduct of the little maid.

“Might ye be pleased to kiss me before I go?” asked Deliverance, putting up her cheek.

The goodwife barely touched her lips to the soft cheek, having a secret fear lest the little maid were in communion with evil spirits. Her heart was so full of grief that her eyes filled with tears, and she could scarce see whether she were pulling up weeds or flowers.

As soon as Deliverance had made the turn of the road and was beyond the goodwife’s vision, she began to run in her anxiety to reach the town’s highway and see the reverend judges go riding by. The Dame School lay over half-way to town, facing the road, but she planned to make a cut through the forest back of the building, that she might not be observed by any scholars going early to school. To her disappointment, these happy plans were set at naught by hearing the conch-shell blown to call the children in. In her haste she had failed to consult the hour-glass before leaving home. She was so far away as to be late even as it was, and she did not dare be any later. She stamped her foot with vexation. The school door was closed when she reached it, out of breath, cross, and flurried. She raised the knocker and rapped. A prim little girl opened the door. Prayers had already been said and Dame Grundle had called the first class in knitting.

Deliverance courtesied low to the dame, who kept the large room with the older scholars. There were four rows of benches filled with precise little girls. The class in knitting was learning the fox-and-geese pattern, a most fashionable and difficult stitch, new from Boston Town. In this class was Abigail Brewster.

Deliverance opened the door into the smaller room. At her entrance soft whispers and gurgles of laughter ceased. She had twelve scholars, seven girls and five boys, the boys seated on the bench back of the girls.

The little girls were exact miniatures of the larger scholars in Dame Grundle’s room. Each of them held a posy for her teacher, the frail wild flowers already wilting. The boys, devoid of any such sentiment, were twisting, wriggling, and whispering. Typical Puritan boys were they with cropped heads, attired in homespun small-clothes, their bare feet and legs tanned and scratched.

Deliverance made all an elaborate courtesy.

They slipped down from the benches, the girls bobbing and the boys ducking their heads, in such haste that two of them knocked together and commenced quarrelling. Deliverance, with a vigorous shake of each small culprit, put them at opposite ends of the bench. The first task was the study of the alphabet. A buzz of whispering voices arose as the children conned their letters from books made of two sheets of horn: on one side the alphabet was printed and on the other the Lord’s Prayer. The humming of the little voices over their A, B, C’s made a pleasant accompaniment to their teacher’s thought, who, with every stitch in the sampler she was embroidering, wove in a vision of herself in a crimson velvet gown and stomacher worked with gold thread, such as were worn by the little court lady, the Cavalier’s sweetest daughter. Growing conscious of a disturbance in class she looked up.

“Stability Williams,” she said sternly, “can ye no sit still without jerking around like as your head was loosed?”

Stability’s tears flowed copiously at the reproof.

“Please, ma’am,” spoke up Hannah Sears, “he’s been pulling o’ her hair.”

Deliverance’s sharp eyes spied the guilty offender.

“Ebenezer Gibbs,” said she, “stop your wickedness, and as for ye, Stability Williams, cease your idle soughing.”

For awhile all was quiet. Then, there broke forth a muffled sob from Stability, followed by an irrepressible giggle from the boys. Deliverance stepped down from the platform and rapped Ebenezer Gibbs’ head smartly with her thimble.

“Ye rude and ill-mannered boy,” she cried; “have ye no shame to be pulling Stability Williams’ hair and inticing others to laugh at your evil doings? Ye can just come along now and stand in the crying-corner.”

The crying-corner was the place where the children stood to weep after they had been punished. Pathetic record of childish grief was this corner, the pine boards black with the imprint of small grimy fingers and spotted with tears from little wet faces. Doubtless Deliverance rapped the offender more severely than she intended, for he wept steadily. Although she knew he deserved the reproof, his crying smote her heart sorely.

“Ebenezer Gibbs,” she said, after a while, “when ye think ye have weeped sufficient long, ye can take your seat.”

But he continued to weep and sniffle the entire morning, not even ceasing when his companions had their resting-minute. The day was quite spoiled for Deliverance by the sight of the tiny figure with the cropped head pressed close in the corner, as the culprit rested first on one foot and then the other.

Altogether she was very glad when Dame Grundle rang the bell for dismissal, and she could put on the children’s things and conduct them home. It was a pleasant walk to town through the woods. Deliverance, at the head of her little procession, always entered the village at an angle to pass the meeting-house where all important news was given forth and public gatherings held. The great front door faced the highway and was the town bulletin board. Sometimes a constable was stationed near by to read the message aloud to the unlettered. A chilling wind swept down the road this morning as Deliverance and her following drew near.

Inside the meeting-house the great witch-trial was still in session. A large crowd, which could not be accommodated inside, thronged the steps and peered in through the windows. The sun which had risen so brightly, had disappeared. The gray sky, the raw air, hung gloomily over the scene, wherein the sad-coloured garments of the gentlefolk made a background for the bright bodices of the goodwives, and the red, green, and blue doublets of the yeomen. Soldiers mingled with the throng. So much noise had disturbed the court that the great door had been ordered closed. On the upper panels wolves’ heads (nailed by hunters in proof of their success that they might receive the bounty), with grinning fangs and blood trickling to the steps, looked down upon the people.

The children with Deliverance grew frightened and clutched at her dress, trying to drag her away, but she, eager to hear whatever news there was, silenced them peremptorily.

Suddenly she heard a strange sound. Glancing down she beheld one of her scholars, crawling on his hands and knees, mewing like a cat. Another child imitated this curious action, and yet another. A fourth child screamed and fell in convulsions. In a few moments the panic had spread to them all. The children were mad with terror. One little girl began barking like a dog, still another crowed like a cock, flapping her arms as though they were wings.

The crowd, disturbed by the shrill cries, turned its attention and pressed around the scene of fresh excitement. Faces of hearty women and stout men blanched.

“Even the babes be not spared,” they cried; “see, they be bewitched.”

Goodwife Gibbs broke from the rest, and lifted up her little son who lay in convulsions on the dusty road. “The curse o’ God be on the witch who has done this,” she cried wildly; “let her be revealed that she may be punished.”

The child writhed, then grew quiet; a faint colour came back into his face. His eyelids quivered and unclosed. Deliverance called him by name, bending over him as he lay in his mother’s arms. As she did so he struck her in the face, a world of terror in his eyes, screaming that she was the witch and had stuck pins in him.

“Dear Lord,” cried the little maid, aghast, raising her eyes to heaven, “ye ken I but rapped his pate for sniffling and larfing in class.”

But strange rumours were afloat regarding Deliverance Wentworth. Sir Jonathan’s words were on every gossip’s tongue: “Gossips, take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

Naturally, at the convulsed child’s words, which seemed a confirmation of that warning, the good people drew away, shuddering, each man pressing against his neighbour, until they formed a circle a good distance back from the little assistant teacher of the Dame School.

Thus Deliverance stood at noonday, publicly disgraced, sobbing, with her hands over her face in the middle of the roadway; an object of hatred and abhorrence, with the screaming children clutching at her dress, or crawling at her feet.

But suddenly her father, who, returning from his herb-gathering, had pushed his way to the edge of the crowd and perceived Deliverance, stepped out and took his daughter by the hand. He spoke sternly to those who blocked the way, so that the people parted to let them pass. Master Wentworth was a man of dignity and high repute in those parts.

As the two walked home hand in hand, Deliverance, with many tears, related the morning’s events; how in some anger she had rapped Ebenezer Gibbs’ head with her thimble, and how he had cried thereat.

“I am ashamed of you, Deliverance,” said her father. “Have you no heart of grace that you must needs be filled with evil and violence because of the naughtiness of a little child? Moreover, if you had been discreet all this mortification had not befallen you. How many times have you been telled, daughter, not to idle on the way, ogling, gossiping, and craning your neck about for curiosity? And now we will say nothing more about it,” he ended. “Only do you remember, Deliverance, that when people are given over to foolishness, and there is a witch panic, it behooves the wise to be very prudent, and to walk soberly, with shut mouth and downcast eyes, so that no man may point his finger and accuse them. Methinks Goodwife Gibbs’ boy is coming down with a fever sickness. Remind me that I brew a strengthening draught for him to-night.”

Chapter IV
In which Demons assault the Meeting-house

The Sabbath day dawned clear with a breeze blowing soft, yet cool and invigorating, from off the sea.

But the brightness of the day could not lighten the hearts of the villagers, depressed by the terrible witch-trials.

Master Wentworth, however, maintained a certain peace in his home, which, lying on the outskirts of the town, was just beyond the circle of village gossip. Moreover, he sternly checked any tendency in Goodwife Higgins or Deliverance to comment on the panic that was abroad. So of all the homes in Salem his little household knew the deepest peace on the morn of that memorable Sabbath.

“Goodwife,” he said, passing his cup for a third serving of tea, “your Sabbath face is full as bonny a thing to look at and warms the heart, as much as your tea and muffins console an empty stomach.”

And the goodwife replied with some asperity to conceal her pleasure at the remark, for, being comely, she delighted to be assured of the fact, “Ay, the cook’s face be bonny, and the tea be well brewed. Ye have a flattering tongue, Master Wentworth.”

Then Master Wentworth, stirring his tea which had a sweetening of molasses, related how, having once had a chest of tea sent him from old England, he had portioned part of it among his neighbours. The goodwives, being ignorant of its use, had boiled it well and flung the water away. But the leaves they kept and seasoned as greens.

Now, this little story was as delicious to Master Wentworth as the flavour of his tea, and being an absent-minded body, withal possessed of a most gentle sense of humour, he told it every Sabbath breakfast.

He continued to converse in this gentle mood with Goodwife Higgins and Deliverance, as the three wended their way to church.

Very cool and pleasant was the forest road. Now and then through the green they caught glimpses of the white turret of the meeting-house, as yet without a bell. The building was upon a hill, that travellers and hunters might be guided by a sight of it.

Often there passed them a countryman, the goodwife mounted behind her husband on a pillion. Later they would pass the horse tied to a tree and see the couple afoot far down the road. This was the custom when there was but one horse in the family. After awhile the children, carrying their shoes and stockings, would reach the horse and, as many as could, pile on the back of the much enduring nag and ride merrily the rest of the way.

Master Wentworth and his family arrived early. The watchman paced the platform above the great door, beating a drum to call the people to service. Several horses were tied to the hitching-post. Some of the people were wandering in the churchyard which stretched down the hill-slope.

Others of the sad-eyed Puritans gathered in little groups, discussing a new and terrible doctrine which had obtained currency. It was said that the gallows had been set up, not only for the guilty but for those who rebuked the superstition of witchery. The unbelievers would be made to suffer to the fullest extent of the law.

And another fearful rumour was being circulated to the effect that a renowned witch-finder of England had been sent for. He was said to discover a witch by some mark on the body, and then cause the victim to be bound hand and foot and cast into a pond. If the person floated he was pronounced guilty and straightway drawn out and hanged. But he who was innocent sank at once.

Soldiers brought from Boston Town to quell any riots that might arise, added an unusual animation to the scene. Lieutenant-Governor Stoughton and the six other judges conducting the trials, were the centre of a group of the gentry.

Deliverance and Abigail Brewster strolled among the tombstones reading their favourite epitaphs. The two little maids, having the innocent and happy hearts of childhood, had found only pleasurable excitement in the witch-panic until the morning Deliverance had been accused by her pupils. But they believed this affair had blown over and remained only a thrilling subject for conversation. Both felt the Devil had made an unsuccessful assault upon Deliverance, and, as she wrote in her diary, sought to destroy her good name with the “Malice of Hell.”

During meeting Deliverance sat with Goodwife Higgins on the women’s side of the building. Her father, being of the gentry, was seated in one of the front pews.

Through the unshuttered windows the sunlight streamed in broadly, and as the air grew warm one could smell the pine and rosin in the boards of the house. Pushed against the wall was the clerk’s table with its plentiful ink-horn and quills.

The seven judges, each of whom had, according to his best light, condemned the guilty and let the innocent go free, during the past week, now sat in a row below the pulpit. Doubtless each felt himself in the presence of the Great Judge of all things and, bethinking himself humbly of his own sins, prayed for mercy.

The soldiers stacked their firearms and sat in a body on the men’s side of the church. Their scarlet uniforms made an unusual amount of colour in the sober meeting-house.

The long hours dragged wearily.

Little children nodded, and their heads fell against their mothers’ shoulders, or dropped into their laps. Sometimes they were given lemon drops or sprigs of sweet herbs. One solemn little child, weary of watching the great cobwebs swinging from the rafters, began to count aloud his alphabet, on ten moist little fingers. He was sternly hushed.

The tithing-man ever tiptoed up and down seeking to spy some offender. When a woman or maid grew drowsy, he brushed her chin with the end of his wand which bore a fox’s tail. But did some goodman nod, he pricked him smartly with the thorned end.

Deliverance loved the singing, and her young voice rang out sweetly as she stood holding her psalm-book, her blue eyes devoutly raised. And the armed watchman pacing the platform above the great door, his keen glance sweeping the surrounding country for any trace of Indians or Frenchmen, joined lustily in the singing.

Many voices faltered and broke this morning. Few families but missed some beloved face. Over one hundred persons in the little village were in prison accused of witchery.

The minister filled his prayers with the subject of witchcraft and made the barn-like building ring with the text: “Have I not chosen you twelve, and one of you is a devil?”

At this Goodwife Cloyse, who sat next to Deliverance, rose and left the meeting-house in displeasure. She believed the text alluded to her sister, who was then in prison charged with having a familiar spirit. The next day she too was cried upon and cast into prison as a witch, although a woman of purest life.

Deliverance thrilled with terror at the incident. She felt she had been seated next to a witch, and this in God’s own house. Moreover she imagined a sudden pain in her right arm, and dreaded lest a spell had been cast on her.

The day which opened with so fearful an event was to end yet more ominously.

Following the sermon came the pleasant nooning-hour. The people gathered in family groups on the meeting-house steps, or sought the shade of the nearby trees and ate their lunches. The goodwives provided bountifully for the soldiers, and the judges ate with the minister and his family.

Toward the end of the nooning-hour Master Wentworth sent Deliverance to carry to Goodwife Gibbs the tea he had brewed.

“Father sends ye this, goodwife,” said the little maid; “it be a strengthening draught for Ebenezer. He bids me tell ye a fever sickness has seized o’ the child.”

The goodwife snatched the bottle and flung it violently from her.

“Get ye gone with your brew, ye witch-maid! No fever sickness ails my little son, but a spell ye have put upon him.” She began to weep sorely. Duty compelled her to attend meeting, the while her heart sickened that she must leave her little son in the care of a servant wench.

The gossips crowded around her in sympathy. Dark looks were cast upon Deliverance, and muttered threats were made. Their voices rose with their growing anger, until the minister, walking arm-in-arm with Master Wentworth, heard them and was roused to righteous indignation.

“Hush, gossips,” he said sternly, “we will have no high words on the Lord’s holy day, but peace and comfort and meek and contrite hearts, else we were hypocrites. We will continue our discussion next week, Master Wentworth,” he added, turning to his companion, “for the nooning-hour is done.”

Master Wentworth, who was given to day-dreaming, had scarce heard the hubbub, and had not even perceived his daughter, who was standing near by. So, a serene smile on his countenance, he followed the minister into the meeting-house.

His little maid, very sorrowful at this fresh trouble which had come upon her, and not being able to attract his attention before he entered the building, wandered away into the churchyard.

That afternoon the tithing-man missed her in the congregation. So he tiptoed out of the meeting-house in search of her.

He called up softly to the watchman,—

“Take your spy-glass and search if ye see aught o’ Mistress Deliverance Wentworth.”

The watchman started guiltily, and leaned over the railing with such sudden show of interest that the tithing-man grew suspicious. His sharp eyes spied a faint wavering line of smoke rising from the corner of the platform. So he guessed the smoke rose from the overturned bowl of a pipe, and that the watchman had been smoking, a comfortable practice which had originated among the settlers of Virginia. Being in a good humour, he was disposed to ignore this indiscretion on the part of the watchman.

The latter had now fixed his spy-glass in the direction of the churchyard.

“I see a patch o’ orange tiger-lilies far down the hillside,” he announced, “and near by be a little grave grown o’er with sweetbrier. And there, with her head pillowed on the headstone, be Mistress Deliverance Wentworth, sound in sleep.”

Thus the little maid was found by the tithing-man, and wakened and marched back to church.

As the two neared the entrance the watchman called her softly, “Hey, there, Mistress Deliverance Wentworth, what made ye fall asleep?”

“The Devil set a snare for my feet,” she answered mournfully, not inclined to attach too much blame to herself.

“Satan kens his own,” said the watchman severely, quickly hiding his pipe behind him.

Now, at the moment of the disgraced little maid’s entrance, a great rush of wind swept in and a timber in the rafters was blown down, reaching the floor, however, without injury to any one.

Many there were who later testified to having seen Deliverance raise her eyes just before the timber fell. These believed that she had summoned a demon, who, invisibly entering the meeting-house on the wings of the wind, had sought to destroy it.

The sky, lately so blue, grew leaden gray. So dark it became, that but few could see to read the psalms. Thunder as yet distant could be heard, and the roaring of the wind in the tree-tops, and ever in the pauses of the storm, the ominous booming of the ocean.

The watchman came inside. The tithing-man closed and bolted the great door.

The minister prayed fervently for mercy. None present but believed that an assault of the demons upon God’s house was about to be made.

The rain began to fall heavily, beating in at places through the rafters. Flashes of lightning would illumine the church, now bringing into vivid relief the row of judges, now the scarlet-coated soldiers, or the golden head of a child and its terror-stricken mother, again playing on and about the pulpit where the impassioned minister, his face ghastly above his black vestments, called unceasingly upon the Lord for succour.

The building was shaken to its foundations. Still to an heroic degree the people maintained their self-control.

Suddenly there was a more brilliant flash than usual, followed by a loud crash.

When this terrific shock had passed, and each person was beginning to realize dimly that he or she had survived it, the minister’s voice was heard singing the fifty-second psalm.

“Mine enemies daily enterprise

to swallow me outright;

To fight against me many rise,

O, Thou most high of might.”

And this first verse he sang unwaveringly through alone.