This, then, was Stephen’s Cousin Amos, the same who, when he was a little boy, had figured so bravely in the witch affair. Although he was a sea captain now and dwelt in England when he was ashore, he visited Hopewell as often as it was possible, and was Stephen’s most well-beloved playmate in spite of the difference in their years. “Now,” he said, when he was seated at the boy’s bedside, “what is this I hear of your climbing King James’ Tree in defiance of the British Army and then falling out of it through turning to gape after a retreating enemy? We must have no more of such doings.” “No, indeed,” replied Stephen gaily, “and when I climb King James’ Tree again I will surely be more careful.” Mistress Sheffield, as she heard his cheery words, turned quickly and went out of the room, closing the door behind her. “Lest you have such another mischance,” said Amos, “I think I must give you my lucky penny that is supposed to keep off just such evil fortune.” As he spoke he felt in the deep pockets of his sailor’s coat and drew forth a battered old silver coin. “It may have power and it may have none, but certain it is that I have carried it since I was a smaller boy than you and have not yet come to any very grievous harm in spite of many adventurings. It once belonged to—whom do you suppose? None other than Master Simon’s sworn enemy, the shoemaker, Samuel Skerry.” “Samuel Skerry?” repeated Stephen, wondering. “I thought that he disappeared the day after Margeret Bardwell’s marriage and was never seen again. My mother has told me many tales of the shoemaker and his wicked ways, but she has never spoken of his homecoming.” “I think she never knew of it,” replied Amos, “nor am I myself certain, though I have pondered the matter a hundred times, whether he ever really came back or not. But my old nurse swore always that he did. When our house was crowded she used to dwell sometimes in the shoemaker’s cottage, and it was there she thought she saw him.” “You say he came back?” questioned Stephen. “I do not see how he dared.” “I am not sure if he really did, but such was old Betsey’s tale. She said that as she went toward her little dwelling very late one winter night she was amazed to see footsteps in the snow along the path and to catch the glint of firelight through the window. She peeped in through a crack of the door and saw the shoemaker himself, a little shrunken, bent, old man, leaning over the hearth and holding out his hands to the blaze. Then, while she watched, he climbed upon the seat of the big armchair and thrust his hand into an opening behind the cupboard. She was holding her breath and peering in with such curiosity as to what he would do next that she leaned over hard against the rickety old door and it burst open, casting her headlong into the room.” “O-oh,” gasped Stephen, wriggling in delighted excitement, although the sudden movement cost him a sharp reminder of his recent fall; “oh, what happened then?”