“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.