“It is strange how it came in there,” remarked Master Wentworth, mildly; “the goodwife seldom enters.”
Abigail, with guiltily red cheeks, stirred the pumpkin briskly. But when she glanced again at her host, she perceived he was thinking neither of her nor of the kitten. She could not know, however, that his eyes, fixed in a far-away gaze, seemed to see the green and sunken grave, blue with innocents and violets, where Deliverance’s mother slept.
“Master Wentworth,” Abigail summoned up courage to ask, “would ye mind biding here alone until the goodwife returns?”
“Nay,” he answered, “I mind it not.”
“And would ye be above giving the pumpkin a stir once in awhile?” she ventured timidly. And as he nodded assent, she put the spoon in his hand and left him.
When Goodwife Higgins returned, weary, disappointed that she could not obtain the hearing of the magistrates,—who were in court,—she found Master Wentworth sitting as in a dream, the spoon in his hand and the odour of burning pumpkin filling the air.
“The naughty baggage!” muttered the goodwife; “just wait till I clap eyes on her.”
The following day the disappearance of Abigail Brewster caused general consternation in Salem Town. She had left home early in the morning for school. Several boys asserted having seen her in Prison Lane. No further traces of her were found. Many villagers had seen evil spirits in the guise of Frenchmen and Indians lurking in the surrounding forest; and when by night the child was still missing, it was popularly believed that one of these evil spirits had borne the little maid away.
Meanwhile the object of this anxiety was trudging serenely the path to Boston Town, carrying her shoes and stockings, her petticoat turned up to her knees, there being many fordways to cross.