“Are you in, Master Wentworth?” he asked. Receiving no reply he stepped inside. He lifted the cover from the large bowl and instantly recoiled. “Faugh,” he muttered, “the stuff has a sickish smell.” He searched the table, even peered into the pockets of Master Wentworth’s dressing-gown hanging on the wall. Abigail, holding her small nose tightly, silently prayed. The dust she had raised from the herbs made her desire to sneeze. Suddenly Sir Jonathan sneezed violently. “Kerchew,” came a mild little echo. “Kerchew!” sneezed Sir Jonathan again. “Kerchew,” went Abigail in instant imitation. “Kerchew!” sneezed Sir Jonathan, more violently than ever this third time. “Kerchew,” followed Abigail. Sir Jonathan glanced around suspiciously at this last distinct echo. But he saw nothing unusual. He poked the toad witches with his stick. “Scat!” said he, and they all jumped back into their dark corners. After some further searching, he went out muttering to himself. Abigail could see him through the open door pacing up and down the kitchen, awaiting Master Wentworth. But at last growing impatient he went away. Abigail, not daring to get down, quivered at every sound, fearing it was Master Wentworth returning. An appetizing odour of the pumpkin was wafted to her. She was indeed in a quandary now. If she descended, how should she escape the witches? If she let the pumpkin burn, she would have to explain how it happened to the goodwife. She sniffed anxiously. Surely the pumpkin was scorching. All housewifely instinct aroused, she descended, and with a shudder at encountering the witches, bounded from the room, slamming the door after her. She was just in time to save the pumpkin. She added some butter and sweetening and a pretty pinch of ginger. While thus engaged, Master Wentworth returned. He greeted her kindly, not observing the goodwife’s absence, and seated himself at the table to sort his herbs. But Abigail noticed he did not touch them, only sat quietly, shading his eyes with his hand. The silence was broken by a scratching at the still-room door. Master Wentworth rose and opened it, and the kitten walked out purring, its tail proudly erect. There are various ways of banishing indiscreet witches who assume the form of toads. “It is strange how it came in there,” remarked Master Wentworth, mildly; “the goodwife seldom enters.” Abigail, with guiltily red cheeks, stirred the pumpkin briskly. But when she glanced again at her host, she perceived he was thinking neither of her nor of the kitten. She could not know, however, that his eyes, fixed in a far-away gaze, seemed to see the green and sunken grave, blue with innocents and violets, where Deliverance’s mother slept. “Master Wentworth,” Abigail summoned up courage to ask, “would ye mind biding here alone until the goodwife returns?” “Nay,” he answered, “I mind it not.”