_The living-room in_ Giles Corey's _house._ Nancy Fox _and the child_ Phoebe Morse _sit beside the hearth; each has her apron over her face, weeping._ _Phoebe_ (_sobbing_). I--want my Aunt--Corey and--my Uncle Corey. Why don't they come? Oh, deary me! [Phoebe _jumps up and runs to the window._ _Nancy._ See you anybody coming? _Phoebe._ There is a dame in a black hood coming past the popple-trees. Oh, Nancy, come quick; see if it be Aunt Corey! _Nancy._ Where be my spectacles--where be they? (_Runs about the room searching._) Oh Lord, what's the use of living to be so old that you're scattered all over the house like a seed thistle! Having to hunt everywhere for your eyes and your wits whenever you want to use 'em, and having other folks a-meddling with 'em! Where be the spectacles? They be not in the cupboard; they be not on the dresser. Where be they? I trow this be witch-work. I know well enough what has become of my good horn spectacles. Goody Bishop hath witched them away, thinking they would suit well with her fine hood. I know well that I-- _Phoebe_ (_sobbing aloud_). Oh, Nancy, it is not Aunt Corey. It is only Goodwife Nourse. _Nancy._ May the black beast catch her! Be you sure? _Phoebe._ Yes; she is passing our gate. Oh, Nancy, what shall we do? what shall we do? _Nancy._ I would that I had my fingers in old man Hathorne's fine wig. I would yank it off for him, and fling it to the pigs. A-sending master and mistress to jail, and they no more witches than I be! _Phoebe._ Oh, Nancy, be we witches? They have not sent us to jail. _Nancy._ I know not what we be. My old head will not hold it all. It is time they came home. There is not a crumb of sweet-cake in the house, and the stopple is so tight in the cider-barrel that I cannot stir it a peg. [_Weeps._ _Phoebe._ Nancy, did they send Aunt Corey and Uncle Corey to jail because I stuck the pins in my doll? _Nancy._ I know not. I tell ye my old head spins round like a flax-wheel; when I put my finger on one spoke 'tis another one. These things be too much for a poor old woman like me. It takes folks like their worships the magistrates and Minister Parris to deal with black men and witches, and keep their wits in no need of physic. _Phoebe._ Oh, Nancy, I know what I will do! Oh, 'tis well I snatched my doll off the meeting-house table that day after the trial, and ran home with it under my apron! (_Runs to the settle, takes up the doll, which is lying there, and kisses it._) Here is one kiss for Aunt Corey, here is another kiss for Aunt Corey, here is another, and another, and another. Here is one kiss for Uncle Corey, and here is another kiss for Uncle Corey, and here is another, and another, and another. There, Nancy! will not this do away with the pin pricks, and they be let out of jail?