[Phœbe Morse approaches with her apron over her face, sobbing. She has her doll under her arm.
Hathorne. Cease weeping, child. Tell me how your aunt Corey treats you. Hath she ever taught you otherwise than you have learned in your catechism?
Phœbe (weeping). I don't know. Oh, Aunt Corey, I didn't mean to! I took the pins out of my doll, I did. Don't whip me for it.
Hathorne. What doll? What mean you, child?
Phœbe. I don't know. I didn't stick them in so very deep, Aunt Corey! Don't let them hang me for it!
Hathorne. Did your aunt Corey teach you to stick pins into your doll to torment folk?
Phœbe (sobbing convulsively). I don't know! I don't know! Oh, Aunt Corey, don't let them hang me! Olive, you won't let them! Oh! oh!
Corwin. Methinks 'twere as well to make an end of this.
Hathorne. There seemeth to me important substance under this froth of tears. (To Phœbe.) Give me thy doll, child.
Phœbe (clutching the doll). Oh, my doll! my doll! Oh, Aunt Corey, don't let them have my doll!