When I arrived at Casco Bay I was puzzled as to how I was to get my information. Stubbs' store could not be approached now, as I had left traces of my last visit and someone might be on the alert, so I hung around Chestnut Hill three days, secreted near the road, hoping to see someone passing who was a stranger. Several acquaintances passed each day, among whom was old Deacon Hobbs, which made my blood boil, and I almost forgot that I was to love my enemies. One day a strange boy approached and I ran up to the brow of the hill and then turned and met him. "Does Deacon Hobbs live in this town?" I inquired. "Yes, he lives over there in that cottage." "Do you think he wants to hire a man?" "Oh, no, he does not want help. He is poor now; all he had is burned up." "Who did it? "We do not know, but think it was an angel from heaven, and every one is glad." "Why were they glad?" "Oh, because he killed the minister. That was last year, and I was not here." "How did he do it?" "Well, he did not kill him, but he got some folks down in Salem to come up and arrest him and they hanged him." "Did he kill anyone else?" "Yes, he killed James Burroughs and Fanny, too, so Mr. Shepherd says." "Who were they?" "James was the minister's son and Fanny was his wife. I live with the Shepherds and heard them say these things." "Did James and Fanny have any children?" "Yes, they must have had one, for I heard Mrs. Shepherd tell how the minister's sister came on from Boston and took it home with her." Then looking inquiringly in my face, he said, "Say, mister, are you sick?" "Oh, no," I replied, and we passed on. On arriving at Boston I learned that uncle had died and Aunt Hannah had gone with her sister, Abigail, who lived in Salem. In Salem, with great difficulty, I learned they had sold out all their property and gone West. All further efforts were fruitless and I returned to New York and began to work at my last winter's job, where I worked quietly, ever on the alert to gain tidings of my boy. MULDOON One day while I was working with an Irishman named Muldoon, the proprietor, Mr. Benjamin, came along, leading his little daughter, who, pointing to Muldoon, said, "Papa, what makes you hire paddies? I do not like them." Muldoon resented the innocent prattle, and turning to Benjamin, said: "Will ye allow that wee bit of a brat to spake that way of a gintleman?" "You are no gentleman to call a child a brat, and if you answer back I'll discharge you at once." Pat tugged away in silence and when Benjamin had gone he said: "I niver knew but one mon in me life as mane as ould Benjamin and that was Cotton Mather himself." "What do you know about Cotton Mather?" I eagerly inquired. "Nothing good, sir." "Were you ever at Salem?" "Do yees think that auld Ben aught to larn that wee bit of a snipe to insolt the loikes of me?" "But, Pat, that does not answer my question."