“And would ye be above giving the pumpkin a stir once in awhile?” she ventured timidly. And as he nodded assent, she put the spoon in his hand and left him. When Goodwife Higgins returned, weary, disappointed that she could not obtain the hearing of the magistrates,—who were in court,—she found Master Wentworth sitting as in a dream, the spoon in his hand and the odour of burning pumpkin filling the air. “The naughty baggage!” muttered the goodwife; “just wait till I clap eyes on her.” The following day the disappearance of Abigail Brewster caused general consternation in Salem Town. She had left home early in the morning for school. Several boys asserted having seen her in Prison Lane. No further traces of her were found. Many villagers had seen evil spirits in the guise of Frenchmen and Indians lurking in the surrounding forest; and when by night the child was still missing, it was popularly believed that one of these evil spirits had borne the little maid away. Meanwhile the object of this anxiety was trudging serenely the path to Boston Town, carrying her shoes and stockings, her petticoat turned up to her knees, there being many fordways to cross. Chapter XII Mr. Cotton Mather visits Deliverance Now, upon the very day of Abigail’s disappearance, ye godly minister of Boston Town, Mr. Cotton Mather, was in Salem in attendance upon the trial of an old woman, whose spectre had appeared to several people and terrified them with horrible threats. Furthermore, the Beadle had testified to having seen her “Dead Shape” lurking in the very pulpit of the church. It was with unusual relish Cotton Mather had heard her condemnation to death, considering her crime, in particular, deliberate treason to the Lord. As he stepped from the hot and dusty court into the fresh air, salt with the sea and bright with the sunshine, a great rush of gladness filled his heart, and he mentally framed a prayer that with God’s assistance he might rid this fair, new land of witches, and behold the church of his fathers firmly established. Leaving his horse for the present where it was tied to the hitching-post, outside the meeting-house, he walked slowly down the village street to the inn, there to have luncheon before setting out for Boston Town. The fruit trees growing adown the street were green, and cast little clumps of shadow on the cobblestone pavement. And he thought of their fruitage—being minded to happy thoughts at remembrance of duty done—in the golden autumn, when the stern Puritans held a feast day in thanksgiving to the Lord. All the impassioned tenderness of the poet awoke in him at the sight of these symbolical little trees. “And there are the fair fruit trees,” he murmured, “and also the trees of emptiness.”