“Weep not that men persecute you, dear child. There is another judgment. Dear child, there is another judgment.” For a long time there was silence. Then the woman spoke again. “Dear child,” she said, “I have a little son who is a cripple. Should you live and go free, will you see that he suffers not?” “Where bides he?” asked Deliverance. “In Ipswich,” came the reply. “He was permitted to be with me there in the jail, but when I was brought to Salem, he was taken from me. Will they be kind to him, think you, though he be a witch’s child?” “I ken not,” answered Deliverance. “Think you they would harden their hearts against one so small and weak, with a crooked back?” asked the woman. Deliverance knitted her brows, and strove to think of something comforting she could say, for the woman’s words troubled her heart. Suddenly she sat up eagerly, and there was a ring of hope in her sweet, young voice. “I remember summat which will comfort ye,” she cried, “and I doubt not the Lord in His mercy put it into my mind to tell ye.” She paused a moment to collect her thoughts. “I am waiting,” said the woman, wistfully; “dear child, keep me not waiting.” “Listen,” said Deliverance, solemnly; “there be a boy in the village and his name be Submit Hodge. He has a great hump on his back and bandy legs——” “Thus has my little son,” interrupted the woman. “And he walks on crutches,” continued Deliverance. “My little son is o’er young yet for crutches,” said the woman. “I have always carried him in my arms.” “And one day he was going down the street,” said Deliverance, resuming her narrative, “when some naughty boys larfed at him and called him jeering names——” A smothered sob was heard in the other end of the cell. “Then what should hap,” continued Deliverance, “but our reverend judge and godly parson walking arm-in-arm along the street in pious converse, I wot not. I saw the judge who was about to pass his snuff-box to the parson, forget and put it back in his pocket, and his face go red all at once, for he had spied the naughty boys. He was up with his walking-stick, and I thought it was like to crack the pate o’ Thomas Jenkins, who gave over larfing and began to bellow. But the parson told him to cease his noise; then he put his arm around Submit Hodge. Ye ken I happed to hear all this because I was going to a tea-party with my patchwork, and I just dawdled along very slow like, a-smelling at a rose I picked, but with ears wide open.