As night now settled in good earnest, a stouter heart than this little Puritan maiden’s would have quailed. The terrible howling of wolves arose, mingling with the mournful tu-whit-tu-whoo of the owls and the croaking of the bull-frogs. She was in constant dread lest she might be spied upon by Indians, who, according to the Puritan teachings, were the last of a lost race, brought to America by Satan, that he might rule them in the wilderness, undisturbed by any Christian endeavours to convert them. On the opposite edge of the marsh, a tall hemlock pointed to a star suspended like a jewel just above it. When, in after years, Abigail became a dear little old lady, she used to tell her grandchildren of the strange fancy that came into her mind as she watched that star. For, as she said, it was so soft and yellow, and yet withal so bright, that it seemed to be saying as it looked down at her:— “Here we are, you and I, all alone in these wild woods; but take courage. Are we not together?” A sweet sense of companionship with the star stole over her, and she was no longer lonely. She found herself smiling back at this comrade, so bright and merry and courageous. Thus smiling, she passed into the deep slumber, just recompense of a good heart and honest fatigue. When she awoke, the sun was shining. Hastily she drew off her shoes and stockings, which she had worn during the night for warmth. Then as her eyes, still heavy with sleep, comprehended the beauty of the marsh, she was filled with delight. The sun sent shafts of golden light into the cool shade. All the willows and slender fruit trees glistened with morning dew. The pools of water and the green rushes rippled in the morning breeze. The transparent wings of the dragon-fly flashed in the blue air. All the birds twittered and sang. Beyond, the solemn pines guarded the secret beauties of the marsh. Thus that which had filled her with terror in the darkness, now gave her joy in the light. By the height of the sun she judged she must have slept late and that she must make all haste to reach Boston Town in time. It was not long before she struck the main path again. Great was her astonishment and delight to learn by a sign-board, nailed to a tall butternut tree, that she was within little over an hour’s walk from Boston Town. This sign, printed in black letters on a white board, read as follows:— Ye path noo Leadeth to ye flowing River & beyonde wich ye Toone of Boston Lyeth. bye ye distance of 2 mls uppe ye Pleasant Hill. And below was written in a flowing hand:— “Oh, stranger, ye wich are Aboute Arriv’d safe at ye End of ye dayes journey the wich is symbolical of ye Soule’s Pilgrimage onn earth, Kneel ye doone onn yur Marrow Bones & Pray for ye Vile Sinner wich has miss’d ye Strait & Narrow path & peetifully Chosen ye Broad & Flowery Waye wich leadeth to Destruction & ye Jaws of Death.”