In that poem there is mention of one “minster-clock.” What may that be? She connects it hazily with the watch that the minister takes out before the sermon. But that could never strike. If she could have one wish in all her life she knows what it would be. A beautiful gold watch all chased with figures and a cherry-colored ribbon tied into the handle. Then she would put it into her waist—but her dresses open in the back! The disadvantages of youth are obvious enough, in all conscience, without that last pathetic touch. When can she have a separate waist and skirt? Suppose she should die before she grows old enough to attain this glory? People have died when they were young—much younger than she. The little Waters girl died, and she was only nine. The Child went to the funeral, but not with her mother. She slipped into the kitchen and listened at the door. When she told her mother that she had gone her mother looked at her so strangely. “Why did you want to go?” she said. The Child could not tell. “It made me cry,” she answered, “but I felt good, too. I want her to tell my brother that I am pretty well, and that I hope he is the same, when she gets to heaven. Do you suppose she will get there by to-night?” They talked about her conduct on that occasion so strangely and so long that she never spoke any more with them about death or the life after it. But she thought about these things. She wondered whether Mary Waters remembered the secret place they made together in a hollow gate-post. Mary Waters had a way of sometimes telling things not quite as they really were. Did she do so now? Or had she told enough lies to send her to hell? For liars inherit hell. It is not that this fact has been impressed upon her mind by others, but she has read it in the Bible and heard it read. There are strange things in the Bible. One is commanded to refrain from doing so many things that one never would do anyway. But those things must have been done by the Israelites and the Pharisees and the Hittites and the Publicans. Then did God mean that the Americans must keep the same laws? But Americans were free and equal. They threw over the tea, and with a wild whoop—wait! let us pretend! This is Boston. It is still and quiet. Night is dark all around. Soft and stealthy come footsteps—the Indians! They gather from the shadows of the trees and houses, they wave their tomahawks exultantly, they glide to the wharf. In their path stands a little girl in a blue-checked apron. She falls upon her knees in terror. “Save me!” she cries. The chief laughs a horrid laugh; he raises his tomahawk—the dog barks loud and the Child nearly drops the peas in her lap, so frightened she is. “I thought they were real! I thought they were coming!” she whispers to herself.