“There’ll be company enough--there’ll be a whole houseful,” muttered the old woman in the corner; but nobody heeded her. She was a lonely and wretched old creature whom people sheltered from pity, although she was somewhat feared and held in ill repute. There were rumors that she was well versed in all the dark lore of witchcraft, and held commerce with unlawful beings. The children of Deerfield village looked askance at her, and clung to their mothers if they met her on the street, for they whispered among themselves that old Goody Crane rode through the air on a broom in the night-time. Silence and David passed out into the keen night. “If you meet my good-man, hasten him home, for the porridge is cooling,” Hannah Sheldon called after them. They met not a soul on Deerfield street, and parted at Silence’s door. David would have entered had she bidden him, but she said peremptorily that she had a hard task of spinning that evening, and then she wished him good-night, and without a kiss, for Silence Hoit was chary of caresses. But to-night she called him back ere he was fairly in the street. “David,” she called, and he ran back. “What is it, Silence?” he asked. She put back her blanket, threw her arms around his neck, and clung to him trembling. “Why, sweetheart,” he whispered, “what has come over thee?” “You know--this house is made like--a fort,” she said, bringing out her words in gasps, “and--there are muskets, and--powder stored in it, and--Captain Moulton, and his sons, and--John Carson will come, and make--a stand in it. I have--no fear should--the Indians come. Remember that I have no fear, and shall be safe here, David.” David laughed, and patted her clinging shoulders. “Yes, I will remember, Silence,” he said; “but the Indians will not come.” “Remember that I am safe here, and have no fear,” she repeated. Then she kissed him of her own accord, as if she had been his wife, and entered the house, and he went away, wondering. Silence’s aunt, Widow Eunice Bishop, did not look up when the door opened; she was knitting by the fire, sitting erect with her mouth pursed. She had a hostile expression, as if she were listening to some opposite argument. Silence hung her blanket on a peg; she stood irresolute a minute, then she breathed on the frosty window and cleared a space through which she could look out. Her aunt gave a quick, fierce glance at her, then she tossed back her head and knitted. Silence stood staring out of the little peep-hole in the frosty pane. Her aunt glanced at her again, then she spoke. “I should think if you had been out gossiping and gadding for two hours, you had better get yourself at some work now,” she said, “unless your heart be set on idling. A pretty house-wife you’ll make!” “Come here quick, quick!” Silence cried out.