The little girl looked obstinately up at her. “They shall not come in,” she said. “The wicked savages shall not come in again.” “No more shall they, an’ the Lord be willing, sweet. But, I pray you, come away from the door now.” Comfort shook her head, and she looked like her father as he fought on the Deerfield meadows. “The savages are gone, sweet.” But Comfort answered not a word, and Goodwife Carson sat down and began to nurse her baby. One of the women hung the porridge-kettle over the fire; another put some potatoes in the ashes to bake. Presently the two women came out of Goodwife Sheldon’s bedroom with grave, strained faces, and held their stiff blue fingers out to the hearth fire. Eunice Bishop, who was stirring the porridge, looked at them with sharp curiosity. “How look they?” she whispered. “As peaceful as if they slept,” replied Goodwife Spear, who was one of the women. “And the child’s head?” “We put on her little white cap with the lace frills.” Eunice stirred the bubbling porridge, scowling in the heat and steam; some of the women laid the table with Hannah Sheldon’s linen cloth and pewter dishes, and presently the breakfast was dished up. Little Comfort Arms had sunk at the foot of the nail-studded door in a deep slumber. She slept at her post like the faithless sentry whose slumbers the night before had brought about the destruction of Deerfield village. Goodwife Spear raised her up, but her curly head drooped helplessly. “Wake up, Comfort, and have a sup of hot porridge,” she called in her ear. She led her over to the table, Comfort stumbling weakly at arm’s-length, and set her on a stool with a dish of porridge before her, which she ate uncertainly in a dazed fashion, with her eyes filming and her head nodding. They all gathered gravely around the table, except Silence Hoit and Grace Mather. Silence sat still, staring at the fire, and Grace had dipped out a little cup of the hot porridge, and was trying to feed it to the dead baby, with crooning words. “Silence, why come you not to the table?” her aunt called out. “I want nothing,” answered Silence. “I see not why you should so set yourself up before the others, as having so much more to bear,” said Eunice, sharply. “There is Goodwife Spear, with her sons unburied on the road yonder, and she eats her porridge with good relish.” John Carson’s wife set her baby on her husband’s knee, and carried a dish of porridge to Silence. “Try and eat it, sweet,” she whispered. She was near Silence’s age. Silence looked up at her. “I want it not,” said she. “But he may not be dead, sweet. He may presently be home. You would not he should find you spent and fainting. Perchance he may have wounds for you to tend.” Silence seized the dish and began to eat the porridge in great spoonfuls, gulping it down fast.