Ann said no more for a little space; a curve in the road hid the Proctor house from sight. Suddenly she raised a great cry. “Oh! oh!” she screamed, “’tis gone; ’tis gone from my foot!” Joseph stopped. “What is gone?” “My shoe; but now I missed it from my foot. I must alight, and go back for it.” Joseph started the horse again. Ann caught at the reins. “Stop, goodman,” she cried, imperatively. “I tell you I must have my shoe.” “And I tell you I’ll stop for no shoe in this place, were it made of gold.” “Goodman, you know not what shoe ’tis. ’Tis one of my fine shoes, in which I have never taken steps. They have the crimson silk lacings. I have even carried them in my hand to the meeting-house on a Sabbath, wearing my old ones, and only put them on at the door. Think you I will lose that shoe? Stop the nag.” But Joseph kept on grimly. “Think you I will go barefoot or with one shoe into Boston?” said Ann. “Know you that these shoes, which were a present from my mother, cost bravely? I trow you will needs loosen your purse strings well before we pass the first shop in Boston. Well, go on, an’ you will, when ’tis but a matter of my slipping down from the pillion and running back a few yards.” Joseph Bayley turned his horse about; but Ann remonstrated. “Nay,” said she; “I want not to go thus. I am tired of the saddle. I would like to feel my feet for a space.” Her husband looked around at her with wonder and suspicion. Dark thoughts came into his mind. She laughed. “Nay,” said she, “make no such face at me. I go not back to meet any black man nor sign any book. I go for my fine shoe with the crimson lacing.” “’Tis but a moment since you were afraid,” said Joseph. “Have you no fear now?” His blue eyes looked sharply into hers. She looked back at him soberly and innocently. “In truth, I feel no such fear as I did,” she answered. “If I mistake not, your bold front and your prayers drove away the evil ones. I will say a psalm as I go, and I trow naught will harm me.” Ann slipped lightly down from the pillion, and pulled off her one remaining shoe and her stockings; they were her fine worked silk ones, and she could not walk in them over the rough road. Then she set forth very slowly, peering here and there in the undergrowth beside the road, until she passed the curve and the reach of her husband’s eyes. Then she gathered up her crimson taffeta petticoat and ran like a deer, with long graceful leaps, looking neither to right nor left, straight back to the Proctor house. In the door of the house stood a tiny girl with a soft shock of yellow hair. She wore a little straight blue gown, and her baby feet were bare, curling over the sunny door-step. When she saw Ann coming she started as if to run; then she stood still, her soft eyes wary, her mouth quivering. Ann Bayley ran up quickly, and threw her arms around her, kneeling down on the step. “What is your name, little maid?” said she, in a loving, agitated voice.