“Ah, yes,” he said, “women are prone to care for fol-de-rols. Still, I have seen fine dandies in our sex. I am minded of my little girl’s dear mother, who never could abide this bleak country and our sad Puritan ways, sickening for longing of green old England.” He sighed. “Yet,” he added hastily, “I criticise not our godly magistrate’s desire to crush out folly.” He turned and peered into the mortar bowl. “You are slow at getting that smooth, daughter.” Deliverance commenced pounding again hurriedly. Although she looked straight into the bowl she could see plainly that stern figure in the further corner, the yellow candle-light touching brilliantly the red beard and white ruff. She trembled and doubted her courage to give him the message. [Illustration: _Copyright, 1898, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company_ “_Take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl._” _page 33_] But there was staunch stuff in this little Puritan maid, and as her father’s guest rose to depart and was about to pass her on his way to the door, she looked up. “Good sir,” she whispered, “the King sends for his black powder.” Thereat Sir Jonathan jumped, and his jaw fell as if he had been dealt an unexpected blow. He looked down at her as if he beheld a much more terrible sight than a little maid, whose knees knocked together with trembling so that the mortar bowl danced in her lap, and whose frightened blue eyes never left his face in their fascinated stare of horror at her own daring. A moment he stared back at her, then muttering, he hurried out into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. “Gossips,” he cried harshly, “take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.” With that, wrapping his cape of sable velvet around him, and with a swing of his black stick, he flung wide the kitchen door, and passed out into the night. “Father,” asked Deliverance, timidly, “how haps it that Sir Jonathan comes this way?” Master Wentworth answered absent-mindedly, “What, daughter, you are concerned about Sir Jonathan. Yes, yes, run and get him a mug of sweet sack and you like. Never let it be said I sent from my door rich or poor, without offering him cheer.” “Nay, father,” she protested, “I but asked—” “Let me see,” murmured Master Wentworth; “to eight ounces of orris root, add powdered cuttle-bone of like quantity, a gill of orange-flower water. What said you, child,” interrupting himself, “a mug of sack for Sir Jonathan. Run quickly and offer it to him lest he be gone.” Reluctantly, Deliverance opened the door and stepped out into the kitchen. Sir Jonathan had been gone several moments. She was astonished to see the goodwives had risen and were huddled together in a scared group with blanched faces, all save Goodwife Higgins, who stood alone at her spinning-wheel. The eyes of all were directed toward the still-room. The baby, clutched tightly to its fearful young mother’s breast, wailed piteously.