And there were saffron, witch-hazel, rue, shepherd’s-purse, and bloody-dock, not to mention the yearly store of catnip put away for her kitten. Master Wentworth swung her up on his shoulder so she could reach the rafters. “The yarrow be tied fifth bunch on the further beam, father,” she said; “there, ye have stopped right under it.” Her small fingers quickly untied the string and the great bunch of yarrow was in her arms as her father set her down. He handed her a mortar bowl and pestle. “Seat yourself, Deliverance,” he said, “and pound this into a paste for me.” Vigorously Deliverance pounded, anxious to return to Abigail. The room was damp and chilly. No heat came in from the kitchen for the door was closed, but the little Puritan maiden was inured to the cold and minded it not. The soft light that filled the room was given by three dipped candles made from the fragrant bayberry wax. This wax was of a pale green, almost transparent colour, and gave forth a pleasant fragrance when snuffed. An hour-glass was placed behind one of the candles that the light might pass through the running sands and enable one to read the time at a glance. At his table as he worked, her father’s shadow was flung grotesquely on the wall, now high, now low. Into the serene silence the sound of Deliverance’s pounding broke with muffled regularity. “I am telled, Master Wentworth,” said a harsh voice, “that your dear and only daughter, Deliverance, be given o’er to vanity. Methinks, the magistrate awarded her too light a sentence for her idle flauntings. As I did chance to meet him at the tavern, at the nooning-hour, I took it upon myself to tell him, humbly, however, and in no spirit of criticism, that too great a leniency accomplishes much evil.” Deliverance fairly jumped, so startled was she by the unexpected voice. Now for the first time she perceived a gentleman, in a sable cape, his booted legs crossed, and his arms folded on his breast, as he sat in the further corner of the room. One side of his face was hidden from view by the illuminated hour-glass, but the light of the concealed candle cast so soft and brilliant a glow over his figure that she was amazed at not having seen him before. His red beard rested on the white ruff around his neck. She could see but the tip of his long nose beneath his steeple-crowned hat. Yet she felt the gaze of those shadowed eyes fixed upon her piercingly. None other than Sir Jonathan Jamieson was he, of whom the stranger in the forest had made inquiry. As she remembered the words she was commissioned to say to this man, her heart throbbed fast with fear. She ceased pounding. Silently she prayed for courage to keep her promise and to serve her King. At Sir Jonathan’s words, Master Wentworth glanced up with a vague smile, having barely caught the drift of them.