A meek voice from the darkness below replied, “I be here wrestling with Satan.” Deliverance rose as she spoke. “Oh, Abigail,” she said, meeting her friend’s glance, “I be sore bruised, buffeting with Satan. I fear God has not pardoned my sins. I be sore tempted. Sir Jonathan was here to-day.” “Bah, the Old Ruddy-Beard,” sniffed Abigail, “with his stick forever tapping and his sharp nose poking into everybody’s business! I suspicion he be a witch. Where gets he his mickle gold?” “He be a wicked man,” answered Deliverance, “and now I do perceive he be sent o’ the Lord to test my strength. But have ye heard yet o’ the fine gentleman I telled ye o’ yesterday?” “Nay,” replied Abigail. “Then summat unforeseen has held him in Boston Town, for the more I think o’ his goodly countenance, the more convinced I be o’ his goodly heart, though he be high-stomached and given o’er to dress, which ye ken be not the way to heaven,” continued Deliverance. “Did ye bring the paper?” “I brought my diary,” answered Abigail, “and ye can tear out as many pages as ye need, but no more, and I also brought ye your knitting that ye might have summat to do.” She lowered by a string the little diary, the tiny ink-horn and quill, and a half-finished stocking, the needles thrust through the ball of yarn. In cautious whispers, with eyes anxiously fastened on the door lest it open, the two little maids planned every detail of the course of action they had decided to follow. But after Abigail had said good-night, Deliverance sat motionless a long time. All knowledge of the village came to her only in the sounds that floated through the window. She heard the jingle of bells and a mild lowing, and knew it was milking-time and that the cows were being driven home through Prison Lane. She wondered if Hiram had yet mended the meadow bars. Later she heard the boys playing ball in the lane, and she seemed to see the greensward tracked by cow-paths and dotted by golden buttercups. At last the joyous shoutings of the boys ceased and gave way to the sound of drumming. She could see the town-drummer walking back and forth on the platform above the meeting-house door, calling the people to worship. Suddenly she thought of her father. She put forth her arms, reaching in vain embrace. “Oh, my dear father,” she cried, and her voice broke with longing, “oh, my dear father, I be minded o’ ye grieving for me all so lonesome in the still-room! Alas, who will pluck ye June roses for the beauty waters?” Sad though her thoughts were that she could not see him, yet these very thoughts of him at last brought her peace.