[The bell rings violently. All start except Neli. Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife enters. She is an old woman, white-haired, and with a commanding, somewhat disagreeable expression on her face. She wears a cloak and black Welsh beaver and walks with a stick.
NELI. Yiss, yiss, Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife, I am just lookin' out a relish for the Deacon. Sit down by the fire, please.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [Seating herself on other side of fire.] Aye, mum, I've come for pins; I'm in no haste.
NELI. is it Jane Elin's baby?
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Aye, Jane Elin's, an' 'tis my sixth hundredth birth.
HUGH. We're discussing the place of hell, Mrs. Jenkins, mum.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Well, indeed, I have seen the place of hell six hundred times then. [Coughs and nods her head up and down over stick.] Heaven an' hell I'm thinkin' we have with us here.
HUGH. Nay, nay, how could that be? Tell us where is the place of hell, Deacon Roberts.
[All listen with the most intense interest.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Nodding.] Aye, the place of hell—[stopping suddenly, a terrified look on his face, as the butter slides against the forward rim of his hat, almost knocking it off, then going on with neck rigid and head straight up] to me is known where is that place—their way is dark an' slippery; they go down into the depths, an' their soul is melted because of trouble.