There again—that’s jest the way he speaks—help, father, help!
What is the matter with you, child?
Nothin’ father; nothin’ at all now—it stops now—it was a comin’ this way when you spoke—my stars! anybody might know it, father.
Know what, Abby?
Make me believe that aint George Burroughs, if you can, father.
Why, to be sure it is, cried Burroughs, going a step nearer to the place where the little creature lay, cuddled up in a heap, with a quantity of split-wood and pitch-knots gathered about her. Why do you tremble so, dear?—what’s the matter with you?—what are you afraid of?
Father—father—shrieked the poor child, stop it, father!
Why!—don’t you know me Abigail?—nor you neither Bridget Pope—don’t you know me dear?
O Sir—Sir—is it you?—is it you yourself, Mr. Burroughs? cried the latter, huddling up into the shadow, and catching her breath, and standing on tip-toe, as if to get as far out of his reach as possible. O Sir—is it you?...
To be sure it is—look at me—speak to me—touch me—