Abigail rose. “Goodman,” said she, “would ye be so kind as to take me across the river? I be in an immoderate haste.”
“To be sure,” said the countryman; “set your foot on my boot; let me have your shoes and stockings. Give me your hands. Now, jump; up we go, that’s right. Ye be an uncommon vigorous lassie.”
The horse splashed into the water, which rose so high that Abigail’s bare feet and ankles and the farmer’s boots were wet. The little maid put her arms as far as she could reach around her companion’s broad waist, and clung tightly to him, her little teeth firmly set to keep from screaming as the horse rolled and slipped on the stones in the river bed.
When they reached the other side, Abigail, desperately shy, insisted upon her companion permitting her to dismount, although he offered to carry her all the way into town.
“Ye be sure ye can find your home, child?” he asked, loath to leave her.
Abigail nodded and sat down on the ground to pull on her shoes and stockings, while the countryman after a moment’s further hesitation made his way leisurely up the grassy hill.
After a brisk walk, Abigail arrived at Boston Common, a large field in which cows were pastured during the daytime, and where, in the evening, the Governor and his Lady and the gallants and their “Marmalet Madams” strolled until the nine o’clock bell rang them home and the constables began their nightly rounds. The trees that once covered the Common had been cut down for firewood, but there were many thickets and grassy knolls. On one side the ground sloped to the sea where the cattle wandered through the salt marsh grasses. And there was to be heard always the sweet incessant jangle of their bells. At this hour of the morning there was generally to be seen no person except the herdsman, but as Abigail approached a stately elm which stood alone in the field, she saw a student lying on the grass, reading.