When he uttered his cousin's name all their
eyes turned towards her. It was to her that his
vision related! She stood among them, amazed,
awe-stricken, but not like one affrighted or
dismayed. She was the first to speak:

"Dear friends, do not think of me; his words
may or may not be true. I am in God's hands all
the same, whether he have the gift of prophecy or
not. Besides, hear you not that I end where all
would fain end. Think of him, and of his needs.
Such times as these always leave him exhausted
and weary when he comes out of them."

And she busied herself in cares for his
refreshment, aiding her aunt's trembling hands to
set before him the requisite food, as he now sat
tired and bewildered, gathering together with
difficulty his scattered senses.

Prudence did all she  could to assist and speed
their departure. But Faith stood apart, watching
in silence with her passionate, angry eyes.

As soon as they had gone on their solemn,
fatal errand, Faith left the room. She had not
tasted food or touched drink. Indeed, they all felt
sick at heart. As soon as her sister had gone
up-stairs, Prudence sprang to the settle on which
Lois had thrown down her cloak and hood.

"Lend me your muffles and mantle, Cousin
Lois. I never yet saw a woman hanged, and I
see not why I should not go. I will stand on
the edge of the crowd; no one will know me,
and I will be home long before my mother."

"No!" said Lois, "that may not be. My
aunt would be sore displeased. I wonder at you,
Prudence, seeking to witness such a sight." And
as she spoke she held fast her cloak, which
Prudence vehemently struggled for.

Faith returned, brought back possibly by the
sound of the struggle. She smiled—a deadly
smile.

"Give it up, Prudence. Strive no more with
her. She has bought success in this world, and
we are but her slaves."

"Oh, Faith!" said Lois, relinquishing her
hold of the cloak, and turning round with
passionate reproach in her look and voice, "what
have I done that you should speak so of me; you,
that I have loved as I think one loves a sister?"

Prudence did not lose her opportunity, but
hastily arrayed herself in the mantle, which was
too large for her, and which she had, therefore,
considered as well adapted for concealment;
but, as she went towards the door, her feet
became entangled in the unusual length, and she
fell, bruising her arm pretty sharply.

"Take care another time how you meddle
with a witch's things," said Faith, as one scarcely
believing her own words, but at enmity with all
the world in her bitter jealousy of heart.
Prudence rubbed her arm and looked stealthily at Lois.

"Witch Lois! Witch Lois!" said she at last,
softly, pulling a childish face of spite at her.

"Oh, hush, Prudence! Do not bandy such
terrible words. Let me look at thine arm. I
am sorry for thy hurt, only glad that it has kept
thee from disobeying thy mother."

"Away, away!" said Prudence, springing from
her. "I am afeard of her in very truth, Faith.
Keep between me and the witch, or I will throw a
stool at her."

Faith smiled—it was a bad and wicked smile—
but she did not stir to calm the fears she had
called up in her young sister. Just at this
moment the bell began to toll. Hota, the Indian
witch, was dead. Lois covered her face with her
hands. Even Faith went a deadlier pale than
she had been, and said, sighing, "Poor Hota!
But death is best."

Prudence alone seemed unmoved by any
thoughts connected with the solemn, monotonous
sound. Her only consideration was that now
she might go out into the street and see the
sights, and hear the news, and escape from the
terror which she felt at the presence of her
cousin. She flew up-stairs to find her own
mantle, ran down again, and past Lois, before
the English girl had finished her prayer, and was
speedily mingled among the crowd going to the
meeting-house. There also Faith and Lois came
in due course of time, but separately, not together.
Faith so evidently avoided Lois, that she,
humbled and grieved, could not force her
company upon her cousin, but loitered a little behind;
the quiet tears stealing down her face, shed for
the many causes that had occurred this morning.

The meeting-house was full to suffocation;
and, as it sometimes happens on such occasions,
the greatest crowd was close about the doors,
from the fact that few saw on their first entrance
where there might be possible spaces into which
they might wedge themselves. Yet they were
impatient of any arrivals from the outside, and pushed
and hustled Faith, and after her Lois, till the
two were forced on to a conspicuous place in the
very centre of the building, where there was no
chance of a seat, but still space to stand in.
Several stood around, the pulpit being in the
middle, and already occupied by two ministers
in Geneva bands and gowns, while other ministers,
similarly attired, stood holding on to it,
almost as if they were giving support instead of
receiving it. Grace Hickson and her son sat
decorously in their own pew, thereby showing
that they had arrived early from the execution.
You might almost have traced out the
number of those who had been at the hanging
of the Indian witch by the expression of the
countenances. They were awe-stricken into
terrible repose; while the crowd pouring in, still
pouring in, of those who had not attended the
execution, looked all restless, and excited, and
fierce. A buzz went round the meeting that the
stranger minister who stood along with Pastor
Tappau in the pulpit was no other than Dr.
Cotton Mather himself, come all the way from
Boston to assist in purging Salem of witches.
And now Pastor Tappau began his prayer,
extempore, as was the custom. His words were
wild and incoherent, as might be expected from
a man who had just been consenting to the
bloody death of one who was but a few days
ago a member of his own family; violent and
passionate, as was to be looked for in the father
of children whom he believed to suffer so fearfully
from the crime he would denounce before