For a single yellow tooth projected on the old woman’s lower lip, and she had a tuft of hair like a beard on her chin,—unmistakable signs of witchery. Yet Abigail was troubled by misgiving, for faded and sunken as the old woman’s eyes were, they were still blue as if they had once been beautiful, and they had a kindly light on beholding the little maid. “Beshrew me, it be a maid,” she cried; “ye have a fair face, sweeting. How come ye here alone at the twilight hour?” “I come from Salem, and I be bound for Boston Town,” answered Abigail, timidly. “It be good to see a bonny face,” replied the old woman; “take the bucket and fetch fresh water from the spring back o’ the five pines. Ay, but it be good to see a human face, to hear a young voice, and the sound o’ young feet. Haste, little one, whilst I cook another flapjack, which ye shall have wi’ a pouring o’ molasses.” Abigail proceeded to the spring, joyful at the avenue of escape open to her. She planned to fill the bucket, leave it by the spring, and run away. But as she lifted the bucket to the stone ledge, the effort took all her strength. She could not help but think how like a dead weight it would seem to the old woman, with her bent back, when, finding that her guest did not return, she would hobble down to the spring. Strangely enough, the old woman seemed to her like a witch one moment, and the next reminded her of her own dear old Granny Brewster. So with a prayer in her heart, she carried the bucket up and set it down on the stoop, just without the threshold. There, as she had first seen her, stood the old woman cooking a flapjack, with her back turned to the door. “It smells uncommon relishing for a witch-cake,” murmured Abigail, remembering with distaste the corn-bread in her pocket. She pictured to herself the old woman’s disappointment, when she should find her guest stolen away. Although possessed by fear, pity stirred within her breast, and, moved by a generous impulse, she put her hand in the front of her dress and drew forth a precious, rose-red ribbon with which she had intended to adorn herself when she reached Boston Town, and laid it on the threshold, near the bucket. Then, with an uncontrollable sob at this sacrifice, she ran swiftly away. [Illustration: _Copyright, 1898, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company_ _Strangely enough, the old woman seemed like a witch._ _page 194_]