Seldom has a little girl undertaken entirely alone a more perilous journey than Abigail had started upon. Salem was not more than fourteen miles from Boston Town, but the trip invariably occupied a day, owing to the many patches of spongy ground, quicksands, and streams which intersected the way. Travellers were often aided by fallen trees and natural fordways of stone. Abigail was confident of her way, having made the trip with her father. She soon discovered the original Indian path which was acquiring some semblance to a public highway. Trees had been notched, and now and then the government had nailed notices, signifying the remaining distance to the metropolis of New England. Far more serious dangers than losing her way threatened Abigail. In the wild woods lurked savages and wolves, and the wily Frenchman with unbounded influence over the cruel Indian.
When the sun was high in the heavens, Abigail ate her luncheon. To go with what she had brought she found some strawberries, the last of the season, as if they had lingered to give this little guest of the forest a rare treat, daily acquiring a richer crimson, a finer flavour.
Abigail was obliged to follow a little stream some distance before she found an available spot to lie down and drink. It was here she missed her way. Confident that she could at will regain the main path, she walked on along a ferny lane.
Nightfall found her in the heart of the forest, unwitting which way to turn. Darkness seemed to rise from the earth, enveloping all, rising, rising, until only the tops of the trees were still brightly green. Such a sense of desolation and loneliness came over her that a sob welled up in her throat. The forest encircled her, dark, impenetrable. She walked on some distance, and at last caught a glimpse of the white sea-sands. It looked lighter on the water, the waves yet imprisoning the sunlight. Her anxious gaze was attracted by a faint column of blue smoke rising beyond five tall pine trees. So very thin was it that it was indeed surprising she had observed it. She started forward gladly, but even as she made her first eager steps she drew back with a low cry of fear. How did she know but that the fire was kindled by Indians or Frenchmen? Shivering with fear, she ran back to the forest.
“God save my soul,” she murmured, stopping to catch her breath, “here be a pretty to-do. Yet perchance it might prove to be woodmen or hunters cooking their supper, or a party of travellers, belated like myself. I doubt not ’twould be wisdom for me to go tippy-toe and peek at them.”
She stole back near the trees and crouched behind a clump of hazel-bushes. It was some time before she summoned sufficient courage to part the leaves and look through. And her teeth chattered like little castanets. Softly her two trembling hands parted the foliage, and her brown eyes stared out.
There just beyond the five pines was a little thatched cottage, very humble, but all so neat and clean. The roof was covered with moss which, even in the twilight, gleamed like green velvet. Up one side and over the corner, trailed the dog-rose with its blush-tinted blossoms, while on both sides of the pathway flourished the wild lilies and forest ferns. In the doorway stood a spinning-wheel, a stool beside it.
Abigail wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “Happen like I smell potatoes frying in the fat o’ good bacon.”
She walked boldly to the threshold and looked in.
An old woman, her back turned to the door, held a smoking skillet over the red coals on the hearth.