Once safely inside Abigail did not forget her manners, but turned about, spread out her petticoat, and courtesied to all the merry young gentlemen, who, leaning over the gate, smiled and doffed their caps. Then retying the strings of her bonnet primly under her chin, and giving her skirts a flirt, she walked with Master Ronald to the door. Master Ronald raised the knocker and rapped thrice vigorously. The door was opened by an old Moor,—so was the negro called by the good folk of those days. When he beheld the student he smiled and bowed; then with deprecating gesture fell to shaking his head solemnly. “Don’t concern yourself this time, Pompey,” said the student, grimly. “I have other business than whining for pardon. Lack-a-mercy-me! I feel as if I should never have heart for any more quips or pranks. Is his Excellency in? Tell him that Ronald Wentworth, a Fellow of Harvard, awaits his pleasure.” The negro ushered them into the hall-room and placed a stool for Abigail. The little maid perched herself stiffly upon it and gazed around her, greatly awed by the magnificence, while Master Ronald, with his hands behind him clasping his cap, paced restlessly up and down the room, his countenance so colourless and lined with anxiety that it was like the face of an old man. The hall into which they had been shown served not only as a passageway but as a living-room. From one side the staircase, with its quaintly carved balustrade, rose by a flight of broad steps to the second story. In the centre of this hall-room was a long table laid with a rich cloth on which was placed a decanter of wine. Stools with cushions of embroidered green velvet were placed for those who sat at the Governor’s board. Abigail’s sharp eyes noted a spinning-wheel in front of the fireplace, which was set round with blue Dutch tiles. But she was most delighted by a glimpse she caught of the cupboard which contained the Governor’s silver plate. The rear door of the hall was swung open and she could see a pretty gentlewoman working in the garden. Her cheeks vied in richness of colour with the crimson coif she wore beneath her straight-brimmed, steeple hat, as she gathered a nosegay, the basket on her arm being filled to overflowing. At last, Master Ronald, pausing, leant his elbow on the carved newel-post of the staircase and sighed heavily. “Did you say Deliverance was treated with decency and kindness in jail?” he asked. “Let them but harm a hair of her pretty head and they shall have ample proof of the love I bear my little sister.” As he spoke, the door opposite opened and a gentleman came out, closing it behind him. He was a tall and solemn-visaged man, richly attired in velvet, with a sword at his side. There was that air of distinction in his bearing which made Abigail instantly surmise that she was in the presence of Sir William Phipps, the new Governor, who had arrived last month from England. He addressed her companion, taking no notice of her.