“Abigail Proctor,” replied the little maid, shyly, in her sweet childish treble. Then she tried to free herself, but Ann held her fast. “Nay, be not afraid, sweet,” said she. “I love you. I once had a little maid like you for my own. Tell me, dear heart, are you all alone in the house?” Then the child fell to crying again, and clung around Ann’s neck. “Is there anybody in the house, sweet?” Ann whispered, fondling her, and pressing the wet baby cheek to her own. “The constables came and took them,” sobbed the little maid. “They put my poppet down the well, and they pulled mother and Sarah down the road. They took father before that, and Mary Warren did gibe and point. The constables pulled Benjamin away too. I want my mother.” “Your mother shall come again,” said Ann. “Take comfort, dear little heart, they cannot have the will to keep her long away. There, there, I tell you she shall come. You watch in the door, and you will see her come down the road.” She smoothed back the little maid’s yellow hair, and wiped the tears from her little face with a corner of her beautiful embroidered neckerchief. Then she saw that the face was all grimy with tears and dust, and she went over to the well, which was near the door, and drew a bucket of water swiftly with her strong young arms; then she wet the corner of the neckerchief and scrubbed the little maid’s face, bidding her shut her eyes. Then she kissed her over and over. “Now you are sweet and clean,” said she. “Dear little heart, I have some sugar cakes in my bag for you, and then I must be gone.” The little maid looked at her eagerly, her cheeks were waxen, and the blue veins showed in her full childish forehead. Ann pulled some little cakes out of a red velvet satchel she wore at her waist, and Abigail reached out for one with a hungry cry. The tears sprang to Ann’s eyes; she put the rest of the cakes in a little pile on the door-stone, and watched the child eat. Then she gathered her up in her arms. “Good-bye, sweetheart,” she said, kissing the soft trembling mouth, the sweet hollow under the chin, and the clinging hands. “Before long I shall come this way again, and do you stand in the door when I go past.” She put her down and hastened away, but little Abigail ran after her. Ann stopped and knelt and fondled her again. “Go back, deary,” she pleaded; “go back, and eat the sugar cakes.” But this beautiful kind vision in the crimson taffeta, with the rosy cheeks and sweet black eyes looking out from the French hood, with the gleam of gold and delicate embroidery between the silken folds of her mantilla, with the ways like her mother’s, was more to little deserted Abigail Proctor than the sugar cakes, although she was sorely hungry for them. She stood aloof with pitiful determined eyes until Ann’s back was turned, then, as she followed, Ann looked around and saw her and caught her up again.