Abigail read the sign over hastily and passed on. “I will get down on my marrow-bones when I come back,” she murmured; “I be in mickle haste for loitering.” Soon she neared the river beyond which stretched the pleasant hill. She heard a voice singing a hymn a far distance behind her. She turned and waited until the singer should have turned the curve of the road. The singing grew louder and then died away. A little later Mr. Cotton Mather, mounted on his white horse, came in sight. It seemed to her that far as he was from her, their glances met and then he turned and looked behind him. That moment was her salvation. Quickly she ran and hid behind the trunk of a great tree. Cotton Mather came slowly on. His horse was well nigh spent with fatigue. She saw him distinctly, his face white from exhaustion, his eyes sombre from a sleepless night. His black velvet small-clothes were spattered with mud. He reined in his horse so near her that she might almost have touched him. He removed his hat to greet the cool river breeze. His countenance at this time of his young manhood held an irresistible ardour. Some heritage had bestowed upon him a distinction and grace, even a worldliness of mien, which, where he was unknown, would have permitted him to pass for a courtier rather than a priest. At this moment no least suggestion of anything gross or material showed in his face, which was so nearly unearthly in its exaltation that the little maid watching him was awed thereat and sank to her knees. His very presence seemed to inspire prayer. A moment he looked searchingly around him, then spurred his horse to take the ford. She saw the bright water break around his horse’s feet, the early sunshine falling aslant his handsome figure. She watched until he reached the further bank and disappeared behind a gentle hill. Then she came out from her hiding. When in after years she beheld him,—his public life a tragedy by reason of his part in the witchcraft trouble and his jealous strivings to maintain the infallibility of the Protestant priesthood,—saw him mocked and ridiculed and slaves named after him, a vision would rise before her. She would see again that magnificent young figure on the white horse, the radiant air softly defining it amidst the greenness of the forest, herself a part of the picture, a little child kneeling hidden behind a tree in the early morning.