Deliverance, abashed although she knew not why, paused when half-way across the room. “Look ye, gossips,” cried one, “look at the glint o’ her een.” To these Puritan dames the extreme beauty which the solitary childish figure acquired in the firelight was diabolical. The reflection of the dancing flames made a radiant nimbus of her fair, disordered hair, and brought out the yellow sheen in the silken gown. Her lips were scarlet, her cheeks glowed, while her soft eyes, wondrously blue and clear, glanced round the circle of faces. Before that innocent and astonished gaze, first one person and then another of the group cowered and shrank, muttering a prayer. Through the door, swung open by the wind, swept a terrible gust, and with it passed in something soft, black, fluttering, which circled three times around the room, each time drawing nearer to Deliverance, until at last it dropped and fastened itself to her hair. Shrieking, the women broke from each other, and ran from the room, all save Goodwife Higgins, who clapped her apron over her head, and fell to uttering loud groans. Master Wentworth came out from the still-room, a bunch of yarrow under one arm, and holding the mortar bowl. “What ungodly racket is this?” he asked. “Is a man to find no peace in his own house?” Upon hearing his voice, Goodwife Higgins’ fright somewhat abated. She drew down her apron, and pointed speechlessly to Deliverance who was rigid with terror. “Lord bless us!” cried the goodman. “Have you no wits at all, woman?” He laid the bowl on the table, unconsciously letting the herbs slip to the floor, and hastened to Deliverance’s assistance. “You have catched a bird, daughter, but no singing-bird, only a loathsome bat. Why, Deliverance, weep not. My little Deliverance, there is naught to be frightened at. ’Tis a very pitiful thing,” he continued, lapsing into his musing tone, while his long fingers drew the fair hair from the bat’s claws with much deftness, “how some poor, pitiful creatures be made with nothing for to win them grace and kind looks, only a hideous body, so that silly women scatter like as a viper had come amongst them; and yet, even the vipers and toads have jewelled eyes, did one but look for them.” He crossed the room, and put the bat outside, then bolted the door for the night. “I am minded of your dear mother, daughter,” he said, a tender smile on his face; “she was just so silly about some poor, pitiful creature which had no fine looks for to win it smiles. But she was ay bonny to the poor, Deliverance, and has weeped o’er many a soul in distress.” Chapter III The Yellow Bird