So I did—I came for no other purpose—
Really?
Really—
A tip-toe, brother, if you please—the sight of you may do them good—
I hope so, said Burroughs—beginning to feel what he had never till that hour had the slightest idea of—jealousy—downright jealousy, and of a nature too absurd for belief, except with such as have been afraid in a like way, of losing the chief regard of no matter what—anything for which they cared ever so little, or ever so much—a bird or a kitten, a dog or a horse, a child or a woman.
I hope so, he repeated, as he followed the preacher on tip-toe and peeped into the little room to survey their faces before he entered, that he might enjoy their surprise. But he started back at the first view, and caught by the arm of his aged brother—for there sat the poor children with their little naked feet buried half leg deep in the wood-ashes, their uncombed hair flying loose in the draught of the chimney, each with her wild eyes fixed upon the hearth, and each as far from the other as she could well get in the huge fire-place; and so pale were they, and so meagre, and their innocent faces were so full of care and so unlike what they should have been at their age—the age of untroubled hope and pure joy—that he was quite overcome.
They heard his approach, either his step or his breathing, and started away from their settles with a cry that pierced his heart.
I pray you! said he.—But Abigail ran off and hid herself in a far corner of the room, where a bed was turned up in a niche, and waited there, gasping for breath, as if she expected to be eaten alive; and Bridget Pope, although she stood still and surveyed him with a steady look, made no reply to what he said, but grew very pale, and caught by a chair when he spoke to her.
Why how now, said Mr. Paris, how now, children? what’s the matter with you, now?
Father—father! cried Abigail, peeping out with eyes full of terror, and speaking with a voice which made her father look toward the door as if he expected Burroughs to assume another shape, or somebody else to appear from the darkness behind. O father—father—O my!—there, there!—there he goes!