"I have but to tighten this about my throat, and lie down--a pang or two--a struggle, and when the light drives these shadows back into the woods, some one would find me here--in charity they would dig through the turf a little, and lay me down by sweet Elizabeth Parris. Who would know of it? Who, on the broad earth, would care? It would only be a poor, lone woman, dropping into death before her time--a wanderer, worn out with travel through a weary, weary world, who asked only to lie down and be still." The tender sadness of these words--the despondency in that face, touched Abby Williams to the heart. She was about to rise, but Tituba held her back. The woman's hand dropped, trailing the ribbon on the grass. She seemed to fall into thought. Her eyes were uplifted towards the stars, and with solemn mournfulness she spoke again: "A little while, and this soul would be yonder, standing before those bright gates, and asking for that love in heaven which earth has denied; asking this of God, who has not summoned me, but who will look first on the crimson mark around my neck. No, no; even death is not mine to take--I must wander on and on, till God is merciful and calls me!" With a slow, weary movement of the hands, she tied the ribbon around her waist again, and, sitting down on the grave of Elizabeth Parris, folded her arms, with a gesture of unutterable despondency, as if she were waiting for the death she dared not take. That moment there was a movement in the forest. Abby and the Indian woman looked that way, but it was only a young fawn, which came leaping through the brushwood, and basked a moment in the starlight before she returned to the thicket, from which some stronger animal had frightened her. When Abby looked toward the grave again, nothing was there. The cool, green leaves twinkled in the starlight, as if no human thing had touched them. She arose and searched the grass. Not a footprint could be found, and the open space, which lay between them and the meeting-house, was vacant. She looked at the Indian woman in vague alarm. "Who was this woman? and where has she gone?" Tituba shook her head. She was a firm believer in ghosts and witchcraft. The apparition had filled her with terrible awe. Once before, in her life, she had seen the same face gleaming before her in the starlight of a summer's evening; and after that came sore trouble on the household. "Was it my mother searching for rest? Will she wander forever and ever, unless I avenge her?" "Come into the house, child, it is near morning: the chief will not be here to-night." "Tell me," cried Abigail, solemnly, "for I must know: was it my mother?" "I did not see her face. Something came across my eyes and blinded them; but she was tall and stately like your mother." "She need not come again, I will not falter," said Abigail, with sorrowful earnestness.