The fordway was so swollen that Abigail did not dare attempt to cross on foot. And although further down where the river narrowed and deepened there was a ferryman, she had not the money with which to pay toll. Thinking, however, that it would not be long before some farm people would be going into town with their produce, she sat down on the shore and dabbled her feet in the cold water to help pass away the time. At last when the first hour had passed, and she was waxing impatient, there appeared, ambling contentedly down the green shadowed road, a countryman on his fat nag, his saddle-bags filled with vegetables and fruit for market. Abigail rose. “Goodman,” said she, “would ye be so kind as to take me across the river? I be in an immoderate haste.” “To be sure,” said the countryman; “set your foot on my boot; let me have your shoes and stockings. Give me your hands. Now, jump; up we go, that’s right. Ye be an uncommon vigorous lassie.” The horse splashed into the water, which rose so high that Abigail’s bare feet and ankles and the farmer’s boots were wet. The little maid put her arms as far as she could reach around her companion’s broad waist, and clung tightly to him, her little teeth firmly set to keep from screaming as the horse rolled and slipped on the stones in the river bed. When they reached the other side, Abigail, desperately shy, insisted upon her companion permitting her to dismount, although he offered to carry her all the way into town. “Ye be sure ye can find your home, child?” he asked, loath to leave her. Abigail nodded and sat down on the ground to pull on her shoes and stockings, while the countryman after a moment’s further hesitation made his way leisurely up the grassy hill. After a brisk walk, Abigail arrived at Boston Common, a large field in which cows were pastured during the daytime, and where, in the evening, the Governor and his Lady and the gallants and their “Marmalet Madams” strolled until the nine o’clock bell rang them home and the constables began their nightly rounds. The trees that once covered the Common had been cut down for firewood, but there were many thickets and grassy knolls. On one side the ground sloped to the sea where the cattle wandered through the salt marsh grasses. And there was to be heard always the sweet incessant jangle of their bells. At this hour of the morning there was generally to be seen no person except the herdsman, but as Abigail approached a stately elm which stood alone in the field, she saw a student lying on the grass, reading. Chapter XIV A Fellow of Harvard His book lay open between his elbows, and his chin was propped on his hands. His cap lay on the grass near by. Abigail’s shyness tempted her to hurry by him without attracting attention, but when she remembered that he might know something of the fine gentleman she was seeking, she paused bravely. “It will be a fair day, sir,” she said in a quavering voice.