Abigail’s heart leapt in her throat. Frenchmen and Indians—what were they? This old woman might be a witch.
Quickly she doubled her thumbs in her palms, and hastened to be first to address the old woman with pleasant words,—these being precautions advisable to take in dealing with witches.
“The cream o’ the even to ye, goody,” she said, “and I trust ye will have appetite for your potatoes and fat bacon, for my mother has taught me unless ye have relish for your food from honest toil, ’twill not nourish ye.”
The old woman turned. “Ay,” she answered in a cracked voice, “honest toil, honest toil, but I be old for toil. Who might ye be that comes so late o’ day?”
As she came forward, something seemed to clutch at the little maid’s throat, and she could scarcely breathe.
For a single yellow tooth projected on the old woman’s lower lip, and she had a tuft of hair like a beard on her chin,—unmistakable signs of witchery.
Yet Abigail was troubled by misgiving, for faded and sunken as the old woman’s eyes were, they were still blue as if they had once been beautiful, and they had a kindly light on beholding the little maid.
“Beshrew me, it be a maid,” she cried; “ye have a fair face, sweeting. How come ye here alone at the twilight hour?”
“I come from Salem, and I be bound for Boston Town,” answered Abigail, timidly.