Although it was an evening in early June, the salt breeze blowing damp and cold from off the sea made Master Wentworth’s kitchen, with its cheerful fire, an agreeable place for the goodwives of the village to gather with their knitting after supper. Goodwife Higgins, seated at her spinning-wheel, made but brief replies to the comments of her guests upon the forward behaviour of her foster-child Deliverance. Yet her glance was ever cast anxiously toward the door, swung half-open lest the room should become too warm. “I trow the naughty baggage deserved correction to put to such ungodly use the fair silk ye gave her,” remarked one portly dame. “Goody Dennison says as it was your standing-up gown ye brought from England to be wed in.” “Ay,” said Goodwife Higgins, grimly. Her face lighted as she spoke, for the door was flung wide and the little maid of whom they spoke entered, breathless with running. “It be time ye were in,” frowned Goodwife Higgins, a note of relief in her sharp tone. “I gan to think a witch had catched ye.” “Come, come, child, stand out and let us see those fine feathers which have filled your foolish pate with vanity,” cried Goody Dennison. Deliverance sighed profoundly. “I do repent deeply that iniquity and vanity should have filled my carnal heart because o’ this fair gown o’ silk. Ye can feel for yourself and ye like, Goody Dennison, there be no thread o’ cotton in it.” As she spoke she glanced out of the corners of her downcast eyes at a little, rosy, freckled girl, who sat at her mother’s side, knitting, but who did not look up, keeping her sleek brown head bent resolutely over the half-finished stocking. “Have ye had aught to eat, child?” asked Goodwife Higgins. Deliverance shook her head. “And ye would go off with but a sup o’ milk for breakfast,” scolded the goodwife, as she rose and stirred the porridge she had saved. “Sit ye down by Abigail, and I will bring ye summat nourishing.” Now, Deliverance had stood long in the hot sun with naught to eat, and this and her long walk so weighed upon her that suddenly she grew pale and sank to the floor. “Dear Goody,” she murmured faintly, “the Lord has struck my carnal heart with the bolt o’ His righteous anger, for I wax ill.” That the welfare, if not the pleasure, of their children lay very close to the hearts of the Puritans, was shown by the manner in which the goodwives, who had greeted Deliverance with all due severity, dropped their knitting and gathered hastily around her. “It be too long a sentence for a growing child, and it behooves us who are mothers to tell our godly magistrate so,” grumbled one hard-featured dame.