Nightfall found her in the heart of the forest, unwitting which way to turn. Darkness seemed to rise from the earth, enveloping all, rising, rising, until only the tops of the trees were still brightly green. Such a sense of desolation and loneliness came over her that a sob welled up in her throat. The forest encircled her, dark, impenetrable. She walked on some distance, and at last caught a glimpse of the white sea-sands. It looked lighter on the water, the waves yet imprisoning the sunlight. Her anxious gaze was attracted by a faint column of blue smoke rising beyond five tall pine trees. So very thin was it that it was indeed surprising she had observed it. She started forward gladly, but even as she made her first eager steps she drew back with a low cry of fear. How did she know but that the fire was kindled by Indians or Frenchmen? Shivering with fear, she ran back to the forest. “God save my soul,” she murmured, stopping to catch her breath, “here be a pretty to-do. Yet perchance it might prove to be woodmen or hunters cooking their supper, or a party of travellers, belated like myself. I doubt not ’twould be wisdom for me to go tippy-toe and peek at them.” She stole back near the trees and crouched behind a clump of hazel-bushes. It was some time before she summoned sufficient courage to part the leaves and look through. And her teeth chattered like little castanets. Softly her two trembling hands parted the foliage, and her brown eyes stared out. There just beyond the five pines was a little thatched cottage, very humble, but all so neat and clean. The roof was covered with moss which, even in the twilight, gleamed like green velvet. Up one side and over the corner, trailed the dog-rose with its blush-tinted blossoms, while on both sides of the pathway flourished the wild lilies and forest ferns. In the doorway stood a spinning-wheel, a stool beside it. Abigail wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “Happen like I smell potatoes frying in the fat o’ good bacon.” She walked boldly to the threshold and looked in. An old woman, her back turned to the door, held a smoking skillet over the red coals on the hearth. Abigail’s heart leapt in her throat. Frenchmen and Indians—what were they? This old woman might be a witch. Quickly she doubled her thumbs in her palms, and hastened to be first to address the old woman with pleasant words,—these being precautions advisable to take in dealing with witches. “The cream o’ the even to ye, goody,” she said, “and I trust ye will have appetite for your potatoes and fat bacon, for my mother has taught me unless ye have relish for your food from honest toil, ’twill not nourish ye.” The old woman turned. “Ay,” she answered in a cracked voice, “honest toil, honest toil, but I be old for toil. Who might ye be that comes so late o’ day?” As she came forward, something seemed to clutch at the little maid’s throat, and she could scarcely breathe.