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 Library 
 
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IN COLONIAL TIMES 
 
 The Adventures of Ann, the "Bound Girl of 
 
 Samuel Wales, of Braintree, in the 
 
 Province of Massachusetts Bay 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY E. WILKINS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE POT OF GOLD," "JANE FIELD," 
 
 " ONCE UPON A TIME," ETC. 
 
 KllustratelJ 
 
 BOSTON 
 LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
Copyright, iSgg, 
 
 BY 
 
 LoTHROP Publishing Company. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. The Bound Girl 7 
 
 II. Deacon Thomas Wales's Will ... 29 
 
 III. The Adopted Daughter .... 49 
 
 IV. The "Horse House" Deed .... 72 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE .... 97 
 
IN COLONIAL TIMES 
 
IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BOUND GIRL. 
 
 This Indenture Wittnesseth, That I Margaret Burjust of 
 Boston, in the County of Suffolk and Province of the Massa- 
 chusetts Bay in New England. Have placed, and by these 
 presents do place and bind out my only Daughter whose 
 name is Ann Ginnins to be an Apprentice unto Samuel 
 Wales and his wife of Braintree in the County afores : '', 
 Blacksmith. To them and their Heirs and with them the 
 s : * Samuel Wales, his wife and their Heirs, after the man- 
 ner of an apprentice to dwell and Serve from the day of the 
 date hereof for and during the full and Just Term of Sixteen 
 years, three months and twenty-three day's next ensueing and 
 fully to be Compleat, during all which term the s : * appren- 
 tice her s : * Master and Mistress faithfully Shall Serve, Their 
 Secrets keep close, and Lawful and reasonable Command 
 everywhere gladly do and perform. 
 
 Damage to her s : * Master and Mistress she shall not 
 willingly do. Her s : * Master's goods she shall not waste, 
 Embezel, purloin or lend unto Others nor suffer the same to 
 
 7 
 
8 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 be wasted or purloined. But to her power Shall discover 
 the Same to her s : * Master. Taverns or Ailhouss she Shall 
 not frequent, at any unlawful game She Shall not play, Mat- 
 rimony she Shall not Contract with any persons during s : * 
 Term. From her master's Service She Shall not at any time 
 unlawfully absent herself. But in all things as a good honest 
 and faithful Servant and apprentice Shall bear and behave 
 herself, During the full term afores : * Commencing from the 
 third day of November Anno Dom : One Thousand, Seven 
 Hundred fifty and three. And the s : * Master for himself, wife, 
 and Heir's, Doth Covenant Promise Grant and Agree unto 
 and with the s : * apprentice and the s : "^ Margaret Burjust, 
 in manner and form following. That is to say, That they 
 will teach the s : '' apprentice or Cause her to be taught in 
 the Art of good housewifery, and also to read and write well. 
 And will find and provide for and give unto s : * apprentice 
 good and sufficient Meat Drink washing and lodging both 
 in Sickness and in health, and at the Expiration of S : ■* term 
 to Dismiss s : * apprentice wich two Good Suits of Apparrel 
 both of woolen and linnin for all parts of her body (viz) One 
 for Lord-days and one for working days Suitable to her 
 Quality. In Testimony whereof I Samuel Wales and Mar- 
 garet Burjust Have interchangably Sett their hands and 
 Seals this Third day November Anno Dom : 1753, and 
 in the twenty Seventh year of the Reign of our Soveraig'n 
 Lord George the Second of great Britain the King. 
 Signed Sealed & Delivered. 
 In presence of 
 
 Sam Vaughan Margaret Burgis 
 
 Mary Vaughan her X mark. 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 9 
 
 This quaint document was carefully locked up, 
 with some old deeds and other valuable papers, 
 in his desk by the " s : '' Samuel Wales," one hun- 
 dred and thirty years ago. The desk was a rude, 
 unpainted pine affair, and it reared itself on its 
 four stilt-like legs in a corner of his kitchen, in his 
 house in the South Precinct of Braintree. The 
 sharp eyes of the little " s : '^ apprentice " had noted 
 it oftener and more enviously than any other 
 article of furniture in the house. On the night 
 of her arrival, after her journey of fourteen miles 
 from Boston, over a rough bridle-road, on a jolt- 
 ing horse, clinging tremblingly to her new " Mas- 
 ter," she peered through her little red fingers at 
 the desk swallowing up those precious papers 
 which Samuel Wales drew from his pocket with 
 an important air. She was hardly five years old, 
 but she was an acute child ; and she watched her 
 master draw forth the papers, show them to his 
 wife, Polly, and lock them up in the desk, with 
 the full understanding that they had something 
 to do with her coming to this strange place ; and, 
 already, a shadowy purpose began to form itself 
 in her mind. 
 
lO IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 She sat on a cunning little wooden stool, close 
 to the fireplace, and kept her small chapped 
 hands persistently over her face ; she was scared, 
 and grieved, and, withal, a trifle sulky. Mrs. 
 Polly Wales cooked some Indian meal mush for 
 supper in an iron pot swinging from its trammel 
 over the blazing logs, and cast scrutinizing glances 
 at the Httle stranger. She had welcomed her 
 kindly, taken off her outer garments, and estab- 
 lished her on the little stool in the warmest 
 corner, but the child had given a very un- 
 gracious response. She would not answer a 
 word to Mrs. Wales's coaxing questions, but 
 twitched herself away with all her small might, 
 and kept her hands tightly over her eyes, only 
 peering between her fingers when she thought 
 no one was noticing. 
 
 She had behaved after the same fashion all 
 the way from Boston, as Mr. Wales told his wife 
 in a whisper. The two were a little dismayed at 
 the whole appearance of the small apprentice ; 
 to tell the truth, she was not in the least what 
 they had expected. They had been revolving 
 this scheme of taking " a bound girl " for some 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. II 
 
 time in their minds ; and Samuel Wales's gossip 
 in Boston, Sam Vaughan, had been requested to 
 keep a lookout for a suitable person. 
 
 So, when word came that one had been found, 
 Mr. Wales had started at once for the city. 
 When he saw the child, he was dismayed. He 
 had expected to see a girl of ten ; this one was 
 hardly five, and she had anything but the demure 
 and decorous air which his Puritan mind es- 
 teemed becoming and appropriate in a little 
 maiden. Her hair was black and curled tightly, 
 instead of being brown and straight parted in 
 the middle, and combed smoothly over her ears 
 as his taste regulated ; her eyes were black and 
 flashing, instead of being blue and downcast. 
 The minute he saw the child, he felt a disap- 
 proval of her rise in his heart, and also something 
 akin to terror. He dreaded to take this odd- 
 looking child home to his wife Polly ; he foresaw 
 contention and mischief in their quiet household. 
 But he felt as if his word was rather pledged to 
 his gossip, and there was the mother, waiting 
 and expectant. She was a red-cheeked English 
 girl, who had been in Sam Vaughan 's employ; 
 
12 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 she had recently married one Burjust, and he 
 was unwilling to support the first husband's 
 child, so this chance to bind her out and secure 
 a good home for her had been eagerly caught at. 
 
 The small Ann seemed rather at Samoiel 
 Wales's mercy, and he had not the courage to 
 disappoint his friend or her mother ; so the 
 necessary papers were made out, Sam Vaughan's 
 and wife's signatures affixed, and Margaret Bur- 
 just's mark, and he set out on his homeward 
 journey with the child. 
 
 The mother was coarse and illiterate, but she 
 had some natural affection ; she " took on " sadly 
 when the little girl was about to leave her, and 
 Ann clung to her frantically. It was a pitiful 
 scene, and Samuel Wales, who was a very tender- 
 hearted man, was glad when it was over, and he 
 jogging along the bridle-path. 
 
 But he had had other troubles to encounter. 
 All at once, as he rode through Boston streets, 
 with his little charge behind him, after leaving 
 his friend's house, he felt a vicious little twitch 
 at his hair, which he wore in a queue tied with a 
 black ribbon after the fashion of the period. 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 1 3 
 
 Twitch, twitch, twitch ! The water came into 
 Samuel Wales's eyes, and the blood to his cheeks, 
 while the passers-by began to hoot and laugh. 
 His horse became alarmed at the hubbub, and 
 started up. For a few minutes the poor man 
 could do nothing to free himself. It was won- 
 derful what strength the little creature had ; she 
 clinched her tiny fingers in the braid, and pulled, 
 and pulled. Then, all at once, her grasp slack- 
 ened, and off flew her master's steeple-crowned 
 hat into the dust, and the neat black ribbon on 
 the end of the queue followed it. Samuel Wales 
 reined up his horse with a jerk then, and turned 
 around, and administered a sounding box on each 
 of his apprentice's ears. Then he dismounted, 
 amid shouts of laughter from the spectators, and 
 got a man to hold the horse while he went back 
 and picked up his hat and ribbon. 
 
 He had no further trouble. The boxes seemed 
 to have subdued Ann effectually. But he pon- 
 dered uneasily all the way home on the small 
 vessel of wrath which was perched up behind 
 him, and there was a tingling sensation at the 
 roots of his queue. He wondered what Polly 
 
14 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 would say. The first glance at her face, when he 
 Hfted Ann off the horse at his own door, con- 
 firmed his fears. She expressed her mind, in a 
 womanly way, by whispering in his ear at the 
 first opportunity, " She's as black as an Injun." 
 
 After Ann had eaten her supper, and had been 
 tucked away between some tow sheets and home- 
 spun blankets in a trundle-bed, she heard the 
 whole story and lifted up her hands with horror. 
 Then the good couple read a chapter, and prayed, 
 solemnly vowing to do their duty by this child 
 which they had taken under their roof', and im- 
 ploring divine assistance. 
 
 As time wore on, it became evident that they 
 stood in sore need of it. They had never had 
 any children of their own, and Ann Ginnins was 
 the first child who had ever lived with them. But 
 she seemed to have the freaks of a dozen or more 
 in herself, and they bade fair to have the experi- 
 ence of bringing up a whole troop with this one. 
 They tried faithfully to do their duty by her, but 
 they were not used to children, and she was a 
 very hard child to manage. A whole legion of 
 mischievous spirits seemed, to dwell in her at 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. IS 
 
 times, and she became, in a small and compara- 
 tively innocent way, the scandal of the staid Puri- 
 tan neighborhood in which she lived. Yet, withal, 
 she was so affectionate, and seemed to be actu- 
 ated by so little real malice in any of her pranks, 
 that people could not help having a sort of liking 
 for the child, in spite of them. 
 
 She was quick to learn, and smart to work, 
 too, when she chose. Sometimes she flew about 
 with such alacrity that it seemed as if her little 
 limbs were hung on wires, and no little girl in 
 the neighborhood could do her daily tasks in the 
 time she could, and they were no inconsiderable 
 tasks, either. 
 
 Very soon after her arrival she was set to 
 " winding quills," so many every day. Seated at 
 Mrs. Polly's side, in her vlittle homespun gown, 
 winding quills through sunny forenoons, — how 
 she hated it ! She liked feeding the hens and 
 pigs better, and when she got promoted to driv- 
 ing the cows, a couple of years later, she was in 
 her element. There were charming possibilities 
 of nuts and checkerberries and sassafras and 
 sweet flag all the way between the house and 
 
1 6 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 the pasture, and the chance to loiter and have 
 a romp. 
 
 She rarely showed any unwillingness to go for 
 the cows ; but once, when there was a quilting 
 at her mistress's house, she demurred. It was 
 right in the midst of the festivities ; they were 
 just preparing for supper, in fact. Ann knew 
 all about the good things in the pantry, she 
 was wild with delight at the unwonted stir, and 
 anxious not to lose a minute of it. She thought 
 some one else might go for the cows that night. 
 She cried and sulked, but there was no help for 
 it. Go she had to. So she tucked up her gown, 
 — it was her best Sunday one, — took her stick, 
 and trudged along. When she came to the 
 pasture, there were her master's cows waiting 
 at the bars. So were Neighbor Belcher's cows 
 also, in the adjoining pasture. Ann had her 
 hand on the topmost of her own bars, when she 
 happened to glance over at Neighbor Belcher's, 
 and a thought struck her. She burst into a peal 
 of laughter, and took a step towards the other 
 bars. Then she went back to her own. Finally, 
 she let down the Belcher bars, and the Belcher 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 1 7 
 
 COWS crowded out, to the great astonishment 
 of the Wales cows, who stared over their high 
 rails and mooed uneasily. 
 
 Ann drove the Belcher cows home and ush- 
 ered them into Samuel Wales's barnyard with 
 speed. Then she went demurely into the house. 
 The table looked beautiful. Ann was beginning 
 to quake inwardly, though she still was hugging 
 herself, so to speak, in secret enjoyment of her 
 own mischief. She had one hope, — that supper 
 would be eaten before her master milked. But 
 the hope was vain. When she saw Mr. Wales 
 come in, glance her way, and then call his wife 
 out, she knew at once what had happened, and 
 begun to tremble, — she knew perfectly what 
 Mr. Wales was saying out there. It was this : 
 " That little limb has driven home all Neighbor 
 Belcher's cows instead of ours; what's going to 
 be done with her?" 
 
 She knew what the answer would be, too. 
 Mrs. Polly was a peremptory woman. 
 
 Back Ann had to go with the Belcher cows, 
 fasten them safely in their pasture again, and 
 drive her master's home. She was hustled off 
 
1 8 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 to bed, then, without any of that beautiful sup- 
 per. But she had just crept into her bed in the 
 small unfinished room up-stairs where she slept, 
 and was lying there sobbing, when she heard 
 a slow, fumbling step on the stairs. Then the 
 door opened, and Mrs. Deacon Thomas Wales, 
 Samuel Wales's mother, came in. She was a 
 good old lady, and had always taken a great 
 fancy to her son's bound girl ; and Ann, on her 
 part, minded her better than any one else. She 
 hid her face in the tow sheet, when she saw 
 grandma. The old lady had on a long black 
 silk apron. She held something concealed 
 under it, when she came in. Presently she 
 displayed it. 
 
 "There — child," said she, "here's a piece of 
 sweet cake and a couple of simballs, that I man- 
 aged to save out for you. Jest set right up and 
 eat 'em, and don't ever be so dretful naughty 
 again, or I don't know what will become of 
 you." 
 
 This reproof, tempered with sweetness, had 
 a salutary effect on Ann. She sat up, and ate 
 her sweet cake and simballs, and sobbed out 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. I9 
 
 her contrition to grandma, and there was a 
 marked improvement in her conduct for some 
 days. 
 
 Mrs. Polly was a born driver. She worked 
 hard herself, and she expected everybody about 
 her to. The tasks which Ann had set her did 
 not seem as much out of proportion, then, as 
 they would now. Still, her mistress, even then, 
 allowed her less time for play than was usual, 
 though it was all done in good faith, and not 
 from any intentional severity. As time went on 
 she grew really quite fond of the child, and she 
 was honestly desirous of doing her whole duty by 
 her. If she had had a daughter of her own, it is 
 doubtful if her treatment of her would have been 
 much different. 
 
 Still, Ann was too young to understand all 
 this, and, sometimes, though she was strong and 
 healthy, and not naturally averse to work, she 
 would rebel, when her mistress set her stints so 
 long, and kept her at work when other children 
 were playing. 
 
 Once in a while she would confide in grandma, 
 when Mrs. Polly sent her over there on an 
 
20 IN COLOmAL TIMES. 
 
 errand and she had felt unusually aggrieved 
 because she had had to wind quills, or hetchel, 
 instead of going berrying, or some like pleasant 
 amusement. 
 
 " Poor little cosset," grandma would say, pity- 
 ingly. Then she would give her a simball, and 
 tell her she must " be a good girl, and not mind 
 if she couldn't play jest like the others, for she'd 
 got to airn her own livin', when she grew up, and 
 she must learn to work." 
 
 Ann would go away comforted, but grandma 
 would be privately indignant. She was, as is 
 apt to be the case, rather critical with her sons' 
 wives, and she thought " Sam'l's kept that poor 
 little gal too stiddy at work," and wished and 
 wished she could shelter her under her own 
 grandmotherly wing, and feed her with simballs 
 to her heart's content. She was too wise to say 
 anything to influence the child against her mis- 
 tress, however. She was always cautious about 
 that, even while pitying her. Once in a while 
 she would speak her mind to her son, but he was 
 easy enough, — Ann would not have found him 
 a hard taskmaster. 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 21 
 
 Still, Ann did not have to work hard enough 
 to hurt her. The worst consequences were that 
 such a rigid rein on such a frisky little colt per- 
 haps had more to do with her " cutting up," as 
 her mistress phrased it, than she dreamed of. 
 Moreover, the thought of the indentures, securely 
 locked up in Mr. Wales's tall wooden desk, was 
 forever in Ann's mind. Half by dint of ques- 
 tioning various people, half by her own natural 
 logic, she had settled it within herself, that at 
 any time the possession of these papers would 
 set her free, and she could go back to her own 
 mother, whom she dimly remembered as being 
 loud-voiced, but merry, and very indulgent. 
 However, Ann never meditated in earnest, tak- 
 ing the indentures ; indeed, the desk was always 
 locked — it held other documents more valuable 
 than hers — and Samuel Wales carried the key 
 in his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 She went to a dame's school, three months 
 every year. Samuel Wales carted half a cord of 
 wood to pay for her schooling, and she learned 
 to write and read in the " New England Primer." 
 Next to her, on the split log bench, sat a little 
 
22 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 girl named Hannah French. The two became 
 fast friends. Hannah was an only child, pretty 
 and delicate, and very much petted by her 
 parents. No long hard tasks were set those soft 
 little fingers, even in those old days when chil- 
 dren worked as well as their elders. Ann ad- 
 mired and loved Hannah, because she had what 
 she, herself, had not ; and Hannah loved and 
 pitied Ann because she had not what she had. 
 It was a sweet little friendship, and would not 
 have been, if Ann had not been free from envy 
 and Hannah humble and pitying. 
 
 When Ann told her what a long stint she had 
 to do before school, Hannah would shed sympa- 
 thizing tears. 
 
 Ann, after a solemn promise of secrecy, told 
 her about the indentures one day. Hannah 
 listened with round, serious eyes ; her brown 
 hair was combed smoothly down over her ears. 
 She was a veritable little Puritan damsel herself. 
 
 " If I could only get the papers, I wouldn't 
 have to mind her, and work so hard," said Ann. 
 
 Hannah's eyes grew rounder. " Why, it would 
 be sinful to take them ! " said she. 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 23 
 
 Ann*s cheeks blazed under her wondering gaze, 
 and she said no more. 
 
 When she was about eleven years old, one icy- 
 January day, Hannah wanted her to go out and 
 play on the ice after school. They had no 
 skates, but it was rare fun to slide. Ann went 
 home and asked Mrs. Polly's permission with a 
 beating heart ; she promised to do a double stint 
 next day, if she would let her go. But her mis- 
 tress was inexorable, — work before play, she said, 
 always ; and Ann must not forget that she was 
 to be brought up to work ; it was different with 
 her from what it was with Hannah French. 
 Even this she meant kindly enough, but Ann 
 saw Hannah go away, and sat down to her spin- 
 ning with more fierce defiance in her heart than 
 had ever been there before. She had been un- 
 usually good, too, lately. She always was, during 
 the three months' schoohng, with sober, gentle 
 little Hannah French. 
 
 She had been spinning sulkily a while, and it 
 was almost dark, when a messenger came for her 
 master and mistress to go to Deacon Thomas 
 Wales's, who had been suddenly taken very ill. 
 
24 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Ann would have felt sorry if she had not been 
 so angry. Deacon Wales was almost as much of 
 a favorite of hers as his wife. As it was, the 
 principal thing she thought of, after Mr. Wales 
 and his wife had gone, was that the key was in 
 the desk. However it had happened, there it 
 was. She hesitated a moment. She was all 
 alone in the kitchen, and her heart was in a tu- 
 mult of anger, but she had learned her lessons 
 from the Bible and the " New England Primer " 
 and she was afraid of the sin. But, at last, she 
 opened the desk, found the indentures, and hid 
 them in the little pocket which she wore tied 
 about her waist, under her petticoat. 
 
 Then she threw her blanket over her head, and 
 got her poppet out of the chest. The poppet was 
 a little doll manufactured from a corn-cob, dressed 
 in an indigo-colored gown. Grandma had made 
 it for her, and it was her chief treasure. She 
 clasped it tight to her bosom and ran across lots 
 to Hannah French's. 
 
 Hannah saw her coming, and met her at the 
 door. 
 
 " I've brought you my poppet," whispered Ann, 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 2$ 
 
 all breathless, " and you must keep her always, 
 and not let her work too hard. I'm going 
 away ! " 
 
 Hannah's eyes looked like two solemn moons. 
 " Where are you going, Ann ? " 
 
 " I'm going to Boston to find my own mother." 
 She said nothing about the indentures to Hannah 
 — somehow she could not. 
 
 Hannah could not say much, she was so aston- 
 ished, but as soon as Ann had gone, scudding 
 across the fields, she went in with the poppet 
 and told her mother. 
 
 Deacon Thomas Wales was very sick. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Samuel remained at his house all 
 night, but Ann was not left alone, for Mr. Wales 
 had an apprentice who slept in the house. 
 
 Ann did not sleep any that night. She got 
 up very early, before any one was stirring, and 
 dressed herself in her Sunday clothes. Then 
 she tied up her working clothes in a bundle, 
 crept softly down-stairs, and out-doors. 
 
 It was bright moonlight and quite cold. She 
 ran along as fast as she could on the Boston 
 road. Deacon Thomas Wales's house was on the 
 
26 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 way. The windows were lit up. She thought 
 of grandma and poor grandpa, with a sob in her 
 heart, but she sped along. Past the school- 
 house, and meeting-house, too, she had to go, 
 with big qualms of grief and remorse. But she 
 kept on. She was a fast traveller. 
 
 She had reached the North Precinct of Brain- 
 tree by daylight. So far, she had not encoun- 
 tered a single person. Now, she heard horse's 
 hoofs behind her. She began to run faster, but 
 it was of no use. Soon Captain Abraham 
 French loomed up on his big gray horse, a few 
 paces from her. He was Hannah's father, but 
 he was a tithing-man, and looked quite stern, 
 and Ann had always stood in great fear of 
 him. 
 
 She ran on as fast as her little heels could fly, 
 with a thumping heart. But it was not long be- 
 fore she felt herself seized by a strong arm and 
 swung up behind Captain French on the gray 
 horse. She was in a panic of terror, and would 
 have cried and begged for mercy if she had not 
 been in so much awe of her captor. She thought 
 with awful apprehension of these stolen inden- 
 
THE BOUND GIRL. 2/ 
 
 tures in her little pocket. What if he should 
 find that out ! 
 
 Captain French whipped up his horse, how- 
 ever, and hastened along without saying a word. 
 His silence, if anything, caused more dread in 
 Ann than words would have. But his mind was 
 occupied. Deacon Thomas Wales was dead ; he 
 was one of his most beloved and honored friends, 
 and it was a great shock to him. Hannah had 
 told him about Ann's premeditated escape, and 
 he had set out on her track, as soon as he had 
 found that she was really gone, that morning. 
 But the news which he had heard on his way 
 had driven all thoughts of reprimand which he 
 might have entertained out of his head. He 
 only cared to get the child safely back. 
 
 So not a word spoke Captain French, but 
 rode on in grim and sorrowful silence, with Ann 
 clinging to him, till he reached her master's 
 door. Then he set her down with a stern and 
 solemn injunction never to transgress again, 
 and rode away. 
 
 Ann went into the kitchen with a quaking 
 heart. It was empty and still. Its very empti- 
 
28 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 ness and stillness seemed to reproach her. There 
 stood the desk, — she ran across to it, pulled the 
 indentures from her pocket, put them in their 
 old place, and shut the lid down. There they 
 stayed till the full and just time of her servitude 
 had expired. She never disturbed them again. 
 
 On account of the grief and confusion incident 
 on Deacon Wales's death, she escaped with very 
 little censure. She never made an attempt to 
 run away again. Indeed she had no wish to, for, 
 after Deacon Wales's death, grandma was lonely 
 and wanted her, and she lived, most of the time, 
 with her. And, whether she was in reality 
 treated any more kindly or not, she was cer- 
 tainly happier. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 DEACON THOMAS WALES's WILL. 
 
 In the Name of God Amen ! the Thirteenth Day of Sep- 
 tember One Thousand Seven Hundred Fifty & eight, I, 
 Thomas Wales of Braintree, in the County of Suffolk & 
 Province of the Massachusetts Bay in New England, Gent 
 — being in good health of Body and of Sound Disproving 
 mind and Memory, Thanks be given to God — Calling to 
 mind my mortality, Do therefore in my health make and 
 ordain this my Last Will and Testament. And First I 
 Recommend my Soul into the hand of God who gave it — 
 Hoping through grace to obtain Salvation thro' the merits 
 and Mediation of Jesiis Christ my only Lord and Dear Re- 
 deemer, and my body to be Decently inter"*, at the Discre- 
 tion of my Executer, believing at the General Resurection to 
 receive the Same again by the mighty Power of God — And 
 such worldly estate as God in his goodness hath graciously 
 given me after Debts, funeral Expenses &c, are Paid I give 
 & Dispose of the Same as Followeth — 
 
 Imprimis — I Give to my beloved Wife Sarah a good Sute 
 of mourning apparrel Such as she may Choose — also if she 
 acquit my estate of Dower and third-therin (as we have 
 
 29 
 
30 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 agreed) Then that my Executer return all of Household 
 movables she bought at our marriage & since that are remain- 
 ing, also to Pay to her or Her Heirs That Note of Forty 
 Pound I gave to her, when she acquited my estate and I 
 hers. Before Division to be made as herein exprest, also the 
 Southwest fire-Room in my House, a right in my Cellar, 
 Halfe the Garden, also the Privilege of water at the well & 
 yard room and to bake in the oven what she hath need of to 
 improve her Life-time by her. 
 
 After this followed a division of his property 
 amongst his children, five sons and two daugh- 
 ters. The " Homeplace " was given to his sons 
 Ephraim and Atherton. Ephraim had a good 
 house of his own, so he took his share of the 
 property in land, and Atherton went to live in 
 the old homestead. His quarters had been poor 
 enough ; he had not been so successful as his 
 brothers, and had been unable to live as well. It 
 had been a great cross to his wife, Dorcas, who 
 was very high-spirited. She had compared, bit- 
 terly, the poverty of her household arrangements 
 with the abundant comforts of her sisters-in-law. 
 
 Now she seized eagerly at the opportunity of 
 improving her style of living. The old Wales 
 house was quite a pretentious edifice for those 
 
DEACON THOMAS WALES'S WILL. 3 1 
 
 times. All the drawback to her delight wa^ 
 that Grandma should have the southwest fire- 
 room. She wanted to set up her high-posted 
 bedstead, with its enormous feather bed in that, 
 and have it for her fore-room. Properly, it was 
 the fore-room, being right across the entry from 
 the family sitting-room. There was a tall chest 
 of drawers that would fit in so nicely between the 
 windows, too. Take it altogether, she was cha- 
 grined at having to give up the southwest room ; 
 but there was no help for it, — there it was in 
 Deacon Wales's will. 
 
 Mrs. Dorcas was the youngest of all the sons' 
 wives, as her husband was the latest born. She 
 was quite a girl to some of them. Grandma had 
 never more than half approved of her. Dorcas 
 was high-strung and flighty, she said. She had 
 her doubts about living happily with her. But 
 Atherton was anxious for this division of the 
 property, and he was her youngest darling, so 
 she gave in. She felt lonely, and out of her 
 element, when everything was arranged, she 
 established in the southwest fire-room, and 
 Atherton's family keeping house in the others, 
 
32 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 though things started pleasantly and peaceably 
 enough. 
 
 It occurred to her that her son Samuel might 
 have her own " help," a stout woman, who had 
 worked in her kitchen for many years, and she 
 take in exchange his little bound girl, Ann Gin- 
 nins. She had always taken a great fancy to the 
 child. There was a large closet out of the south- 
 west room, where she could sleep, and she could 
 be made very useful, taking steps, and running 
 " arrants " for her. 
 
 Mr. Samuel and his wife hesitated a little, when 
 this plan was proposed. In spite of the trouble 
 she gave them, they were attached to Ann, and 
 did not like to part with her, and Mrs. Polly was 
 just getting her "larnt" her own ways, as she 
 put it. Privately, she feared Grandma would 
 undo all the good she had done, in teaching 
 Ann to be smart and capable. Finally they 
 gave in, with the understanding that it was 
 not to be considered necessarily a permanent 
 arrangement, and Ann went to live with the 
 old lady. 
 
 Mrs. Dorcas did not relish this any more than 
 
DEACON THOMAS WALES'S WILL. 33 
 
 she did the appropriation of the southwest fire- 
 room. She had never Hked Ann very well. Be- 
 sides, she had two little girls of her own, and she 
 fancied Ann rivalled them in Grandma's affection. 
 So, soon after the girl was established in the 
 house, she began to show out in various little 
 ways. 
 
 Thirsey, her youngest child, was a mere baby, 
 a round fat dumpling of a thing. She was sweet 
 and good-natured, and the pet of the whole family. 
 Ann was very fond of playing with her, and tend- 
 ing her, and Mrs. Dorcas began to take advan- 
 tage of it. The minute Ann was at liberty she 
 was called upon to take care of Thirsey. The 
 constant carrying about such a heavy child soon 
 began to make her shoulders stoop and ache. 
 Then Grandma took up the cudgels. She was 
 smart and high-spirited, but she was a very 
 peaceable old lady on her own account, and 
 resolved " to put up with everything from 
 Dorcas, rather than have strife in the family." 
 She was not going to see this helpless httle girl 
 imposed on, however. " The little gal ain't goin' 
 to get bent all over, tendin' that heavy baby. 
 
34 11^ COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Dorcas," she proclaimed. " You can jist make 
 your mind up to it. She didn't come here to do 
 sech work." 
 
 So Dorcas had to make up her mind to it. 
 
 Ann's principal duties were scouring " the 
 brasses " in Grandma's room, taking steps for 
 her, and spinning her stint every day. Grandma 
 set smaller stints than Mrs. Polly. As time went 
 on, she helped about the cooking. She and 
 Grandma cooked their own victuals, and ate 
 from a little separate table in the common 
 kitchen. It was a very large room, and might 
 have accommodated several families, if they could 
 have agreed. There was a big oven, and a 
 roomy fireplace. Good Deacon Wales had 
 probably seen no reason at all why his " be- 
 loved wife " should not have her right therein 
 with the greatest peace and concord. 
 
 But it soon came to pass that Mrs. Dorcas's 
 pots and kettles were all prepared to hang on 
 the trammels when Grandma's were, and an 
 army of cakes and pies marshalled to go in the 
 oven when Grandma had proposed to do some 
 baking. Grandma bore it patiently for a long 
 
DEACON THOMAS WALES'S WILL. 35 
 
 time ; but Ann was with difficulty restrained 
 from freeing her small mind, and her black 
 eyes snapped more dangerously, at every new 
 offence. 
 
 One morning Grandma had two loaves of "riz 
 bread," and some election cakes, rising, and was 
 intending -to bake them in about an hour, when 
 they should be sufficiently Hght. What should 
 Mrs. Dorcas do, but mix up sour milk bread 
 and some pies with the greatest speed, and fill 
 up the oven, before Grandma's cookery was 
 ready ! 
 
 Grandma sent Ann out into the kitchen to 
 put the loaves in the oven, and, lo and behold ! 
 the oven was full. Ann stood staring for a 
 minute, with a loaf of election cake in her 
 hands ; that and the bread would be ruined if 
 they were not baked immediately, as they were 
 raised enough. Mrs. Dorcas had taken Thirsey 
 and stepped out somewhere, and there was no 
 one in the kitchen. Ann set the election cake 
 back on the table. Then, with the aid of the 
 tongs, she reached into the brick oven and took 
 out every one of Mrs. Dorcas's pies and loaves. 
 
36 . IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Then she arranged them deliberately in a pitiful 
 semicircle on the hearth, and put Grandma's 
 cookery in the oven. 
 
 She went back to the southwest room then, 
 and sat quietly down to her spinning. Grandma 
 asked if she had put the things in, and she said 
 " Yes, ma'am," meekly. There was a bright red 
 spot on each of her dark cheeks. 
 
 When 'Mrs. Dorcas entered the kitchen, carry- 
 ing Thirsey wrapped up in an old homespun 
 blanket, she nearly dropped as her gaze fell on 
 the fireiDlace and the hearth. There sat her 
 bread and pies, in the most lamentable half 
 baked, sticky, doughy condition imaginable. 
 She opened the oven, and peered in. There 
 were Grandma's loaves, all a lovely brown. 
 Out they came, with a twitch. Luckily, they 
 were done. Her own went in, but they were 
 irretrievable failures. 
 
 Of course, quite a commotion came from this. 
 Dorcas raised her shrill voice pretty high, and 
 Grandma, though she had been innocent of the 
 whole transaction, was so blamed that she gave 
 Dorcas a piece of her mind at last. Ann sur- 
 
DEACON THOMAS WALES'S WILL. 37 
 
 veyed the nice brown loaves, and listened to the 
 talk in secret satisfaction ; but she had to suffer 
 for it afterward. Grandma punished her for the 
 first time, and she discovered that that kind old 
 hand was pretty firm and strong. " No matter 
 what you think or whether you air in the rights 
 on't or not, a little gal mustn't ever sass her 
 elders," said Grandma. 
 
 But if Ann's interference was blamable, it 
 was productive of one good result, — the matter 
 came to Mr. Atherton's ears, and he had a stern 
 sense of justice when roused, and a great vener- 
 ation for his mother. His father's will should 
 be carried out to the letter, he declared ; and 
 it was. Grandma baked and boiled in peace, 
 outwardly, af least, after that. 
 
 Ann was a great comfort to her ; she was out- 
 growing her wild, mischievous ways, and she was 
 so bright and quick. She promised to be pretty, 
 too. Grandma compared her favorably with her 
 own grandchildren, especially Mrs. Dorcas's eld- 
 est daughter Martha, who was nearly Ann's age. 
 " Marthy's a pretty little gal enough," she used 
 to say, " but she ain't got the snap to her that 
 
38 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Ann has, though I wouldn't tell Atherton's wife 
 so for the world." 
 
 She promised Ann her gold beads, when she 
 should be done with them, under strict injunc- 
 tions not to say anything about it till the time 
 came; for the others might feel hard as she 
 wasn't her own flesh and blood. The gold 
 beads were Ann's ideals of beauty and richness, 
 though she did not like to hear Grandma talk 
 about being " done with them." Grandma always 
 wore them around her fair, plump old neck ; she 
 had never seen her without her string of beads. 
 
 As before said, Ann was now very seldom 
 mischievous enough to make herself serious 
 trouble ; but, once in a while, her natural pro- 
 pensities would crop out. When they did, Mrs. 
 Dorcas was exceedingly bitter. Indeed, her dis- 
 like of Ann was at all times smouldering, and 
 needed only a slight fanning to break out. 
 
 One stormy winter day Mrs. Dorcas had been 
 working till dark, making candle-wicks. When 
 she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy 
 rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung 
 them up in the cellar-way, over the stairs, to be 
 
DEACON THOMAS WALES'S WILL. 39 
 
 out of the way. They were extra fine wicks, 
 being made of flax for the company candles. 
 " I've got a good job done," said Mrs. Dorcas, 
 surveying them complacently. Her husband had 
 gone to Boston, and was not coming home till 
 the next day, so she had had a nice chance to 
 work at them, without as much interruption as 
 usual. 
 
 Ann, going down the cellar stairs, with a 
 lighted candle, after some butter for tea, spied 
 the beautiful rolls swinging overhead. What 
 possessed her to, she could not herself have told, 
 — she certainly had no wish to injure Mrs. Dor- 
 cas's wicks, — but she pinched up a httle end of 
 the fluffy flax, and touched her candle to it. 
 She thought she would see how that little bit 
 would burn off. She soon found out. The flame 
 caught, and ran like lightning through the whole 
 bundle. There was a great puff of fire and 
 smoke, and poor Mrs. Dorcas's fine candle-wicks 
 were gone. Ann screamed, and sprang down- 
 stairs. She barely escaped the whole blaze 
 coming in her face. 
 
 " What's that ! " shrieked Mrs. Dorcas, rushing 
 
40 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 to the cellar door. Words cannot describe her 
 feehng when she saw that her nice candle-wicks, 
 the fruit of her day's toil, were burnt up. 
 
 If ever there was a wretched culprit that night, 
 Ann was. She had not meant to do wrong, but 
 that, maybe, made it worse for her in one way. 
 She had not even gratified malice to sustain her. 
 Grandma blamed her almost as severely as Mrs. 
 Dorcas. She said she didn't know what would 
 " become of a little gal that was so keerless," and 
 decreed that she must stay at home from school 
 and work on candle-wicks till Mrs. Dorcas's loss 
 was made good to her. Ann listened ruefully. 
 She was scared and sorry, but that did not seem 
 to help matters any. She did not want any sup- 
 per, and she went to bed early, and cried herself 
 to sleep. 
 
 Somewhere about midnight a strange sound 
 woke her up. She called out to Grandma in 
 alarm. The same sound had awakened her. 
 " Get up, an' light a candle, child," said she ; 
 " I'm afeard the baby's sick." 
 
 Ann scarcely had the candle lighted, before 
 the door opened, and Mrs. Dorcas appeared in 
 
DEACON TI-IOMAS WALES'S WILL. 4I 
 
 her night-dress, — she was very pale, and trem- 
 bling all over. " Oh," she gasped, " it's the baby. 
 Thirsey's got the croup, an' Atherton's away, and 
 there ain't anybody to go for the doctor. Oh, 
 what shall I do, what shall I do ? " She fairly 
 wrung her hands." 
 
 " Hev you tried the skunk's oil," asked Grand- 
 ma, eagerly, preparing to get up. 
 
 " Yes, I have, I have ! It's a good- hour since 
 she woke up, an' I've tried everything. It hasn't 
 done any good. I thought I wouldn't call you, if 
 I could help it, but she's worse, — only hear her! 
 An' Atherton's away ! Oh, what shall I do, what 
 shall I do ? " 
 
 " Don't take on so, Dorcas," said Grandma, 
 tremulously, but cheeringly. " I'll come right 
 along, an' — why, child, what air you goin' to do ? " 
 
 Ann had finished dressing herself, and now she 
 was pinning a heavy homespun blanket over her 
 head, as if she were preparing to go out-doors. 
 
 " I'm going after the doctor for Thirsey," said 
 Ann, her black eyes flashing with determination. 
 
 " Oh, will you, will you ? " cried Mrs. Dorcas, 
 catching at this new help. 
 
42 IJsr COLONIAL TIME'S. 
 
 " Hush, Dorcas," said Grandma, sternly. " It's 
 an awful storm out, — jist hear the wind blow! 
 It ain't fit fur her to go. Her life's jist as 
 precious as Thirsey's." 
 
 Ann said nothing more, but she went into her 
 own little room with the same determined look 
 in her eyes. There was a door leading from this 
 room into the kitchen. Ann slipped through it 
 hastily, lit a lantern which was hanging beside 
 the kitchen chimney, and was out-doors in a 
 minute. 
 
 The storm was one of sharp, driving sleet, 
 which struck her face like so many needles. 
 The first blast, as she stepped outside the door, 
 seemed to almost force her back, but her heart 
 did not fail her. The snow was not so very deep, 
 but it was hard walking. There was no pretence 
 of a path. The doctor lived half a mile away, 
 and there was not a house in the whole distance, 
 save the meeting-house and schoolhouse. It was 
 very dark. Lucky it was that she had taken 
 the lantern ; she could not have found her way 
 without it. 
 
 On kept the little slender, erect figure, with 
 
DEACON THOMAS I TALES 'S WILL. 43- 
 
 the fierce determination in its heart, through the 
 snow and sleet, holding the blanket close over its 
 head, and swinging the feeble lantern bravely. 
 
 When she reached the doctor's house, he was 
 gone. He had started for the North Precinct 
 early in the evening, his good wife said ; he was 
 called down to Captain Isaac Lovejoy's, the 
 house next the North Precinct meeting-house. 
 She'd been sitting up waiting for him, it was 
 such an awful storm, and such a lonely road. 
 She was worried, but she didn't think he'd start 
 for home that night ; she guessed he'd stay at 
 Captain Lovejoy's till morning. 
 
 The doctor's wife, holding her door open as 
 best she could, in the violent wind, had hardly 
 given this information to the little snow-be- 
 draggled object standing out there in the inky 
 darkness, through which the lantern made a faint 
 circle of light, before she had disappeared. 
 
 " She went like a speerit," said the good 
 woman, staring out into the blackness in amaze- 
 ment. She never dreamed of such a thing as 
 Ann's going to the North Precinct after the 
 doctor, but that was what the daring girl had 
 
44 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 determined to do. She had listened to the doc- 
 tor's wife in dismay, but with never one doubt as 
 to her own course of proceeding. 
 
 Straight along the road to the North Precinct 
 she kept. It would have been an awful journey 
 that night for a strong man. It seemed incredible 
 that a little girl could have the strength or cour- 
 age to accomplish it. There were four miles to 
 traverse in a black, howling storm, over a path- 
 less road, through forests, with hardly a house by 
 the way. 
 
 When she reached Captain Isaac Lovejoy's 
 house, next to the meeting-house in the North 
 Precinct of Braintree, stumbling blindly into the 
 warm, lighted kitchen, the captain and the doctor 
 could hardly believe their senses. She told the 
 doctor about Thirsey; then she almost fainted 
 from cold and exhaustion. 
 
 Goodwife Lovejoy laid her on the settee, and 
 brewed her some hot herb tea. She almost for- 
 got her own sick little girl, for a few minutes, in 
 trying to restore this brave child who had come 
 from the South Precinct in this dreadful storm 
 to save little Thirsey Wales's life. 
 
DEACON THOMAS WALES'S WILL. 47 
 
 When Ann came to herself a little, her first 
 question was, if the doctor were ready to go. 
 
 " He's gone," said Mrs. Lovejoy, cheeringly. 
 
 Ann felt disappointed. She had thought she 
 was going back with him. But that would have 
 been impossible. She could not have stood the 
 journey for the second time that night, even on 
 horseback behind the doctor, as she had planned. 
 
 She drank a second bowlful of herb tea, and 
 went to bed with a hot stone at her feet, and a 
 great many blankets and coverlets over her. 
 
 The next morning Captain Lovejoy carried 
 her home. He had a rough wood sled, and she 
 rode on that, on an old quilt ; it was easier than 
 horseback, and she was pretty lame and tired. 
 
 Mrs. Dorcas saw her coming and opened the 
 door. When Ann came up on the stoop, she 
 just threw her arms around her and kissed her. 
 
 " You needn't make the candle-wicks," said 
 she. " It's no matter about them at all. Thirsey's 
 better this morning, an' I guess you saved her 
 life." 
 
 Grandma was fairly bursting with pride and 
 delight in her little gal's brave feat, now that she 
 
48 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 saw her safe. She untied the gold beads on 
 her neck, and fastened them around Ann's. 
 " There," said she, " you may wear them to 
 school to-day, if you'll be keeiful." 
 
 That day, with the gold beads by way of cele- 
 bration, began a new era in Ann's life. There 
 was no more secret animosity between her and 
 Mrs. Dorcas. The doctor had come that night 
 in the very nick of time. Thirsey was almost 
 dying. Her mother was fully convinced that 
 Ann had saved her life, and she never forgot it. 
 She was a woman of strong feelings, who never 
 did things by halves, and she not only treated 
 Ann with kindness, but she seemed to smother 
 her grudge against Grandma (or robbing her of 
 the southwest fire-room. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 
 
 The Inventory of the Estate of Samuel Wales Late of 
 Braintree, Taken by the Subscribers, March the 14th, 
 1761. 
 His Purse in Cash ...... ;^ii-i5-oi 
 
 His apparrel ....... lo-ii-oo 
 
 His watch ....... 2-13-04 
 
 The Best Bed with two Coverlids, three sheets, 
 
 two underbeds, two Bolsters, two pillows. 
 
 Bedstead rope . . . . ■ £ (> 
 One mill Blanket, two Phlanel sheets, 12 toe 
 
 Sheets . . . . . . . ;^ 3- 4- 8 
 
 Eleven Towels & table Cloth . 
 
 a pair of mittens & pr. of Gloves 
 
 a neck Handkerchief & neckband 
 
 an ovel Tabel — Two other Tabels 
 
 A Chist with Draws 
 
 Another Low Chist with Draws & three other 
 
 Chists .... 
 Six best Chears and a great chear 
 a warming pan — Two Brass Kittles 
 a Small Looking Glass, five Pewter Basons 
 
 49 
 
 0-15- 
 
 
 
 0- 2- 
 
 
 
 0- 4- 
 
 
 
 1-12- 
 
 
 
 2-8- 
 
 
 
 I-IO- 
 
 
 
 I- 6- 
 
 
 
 I- s- 
 
 
 
 0- 7- 
 
 8 
 
50 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 fifteen other Chears ..... 0-15- o 
 
 fire arms, Sword & bayonet . . . . 1-4-0 
 
 Six Porringers, four platters, Two Pewter Pots . £\~ o- 4 
 
 auger Chisel, Gimlet, a Bible & other Books . 0-15- o 
 
 A chese press, great spinning-wheel, & spindle . 0-9-4 
 
 a smith's anvil ...... 3-12- o 
 
 the Pillion .0-8-0 
 
 a Bleu Jacket 0-0-3 
 
 Aaron Whitcomb. 
 
 Silas White. 
 
 The foregoing is only a small portion of the 
 original inventory of Samuel Wales's estate. He 
 was an exceedingly well-to-do man for these 
 times. He had a good many acres of rich 
 pasture and woodland, and considerable live 
 stock. Then his home was larger and more 
 comfortable than was usual then ; and his stock 
 of household utensils plentiful. 
 
 He died three years after Ann Ginnins went 
 to live with Grandma, when she was about thir- 
 teen years old. Grandma spared her to Mrs. 
 Polly for a few weeks after the funeral ; there 
 was a great deal to be done, and she needed 
 some extra help. And, after all, Ann was 
 legally bound to her, and her lawful servant. 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. J I 
 
 So the day after good Samuel Wales was laid 
 away in the little Braintree burying-ground, Ann 
 returned to her old quarters for a little while. 
 She did not really want to go; but she did not 
 object to the plan at all. She was sincerely 
 sorry for poor Mrs. Polly, and wanted to help 
 her, if she could. She mourned, herself, for 
 Mr. Samuel. He had always been very kind 
 to her. 
 
 Mrs. Polly had for company, besides Ann, 
 Nabby Porter, Grandma's old hired woman 
 whom she had made over to her, and a young 
 man who had been serving as apprentice to 
 Mr. Samuel. His name was Phineas Adams. 
 He was very shy and silent, but a good 
 workman. 
 
 Samuel Wales left a will bequeathing every- 
 thing to his widow ; that was solemnly read in 
 the fore-room one afternoon ; then the inventory 
 had to be taken. That, on account of the amount 
 of property, was quite an undertaking; but it 
 was carried out with the greatest formality and 
 precision. 
 
 For several days Mr. Aaron Whitcomb and 
 
52 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Mr. Silas White were stalking majestically about 
 the premises, with note-books and pens. Aaron 
 Whitcomb was a grave, portly old man, with a 
 large head of white hair. Silas White was little 
 and wiry and fussy. He monopolized the greater 
 part of the business, although he was not half as 
 well fitted for it as his companion. 
 
 They pried into everything with religious ex- 
 actitude. Mrs. Polly watched them with beseem- 
 ing awe and deference, but it was a great trial to 
 her, and she grew very nervous over it. It seemed 
 dreadful to have all her husband's little personal 
 effects, down to his neck-band and mittens, han- 
 dled over, and their worth in shillings and pence 
 calculated. She had a price fixed on them already 
 in higher currency. 
 
 Ann found her crying one afternoon, sitting 
 on the kitchen settle, with her apron over her 
 head. When she saw the little girl's pitying 
 look, she poured out her trouble to her. 
 
 " They've just been valuing his mittens and 
 gloyes," said she, sobbing, " at two-and-sixpence. 
 I shall be thankful when they are through." 
 
 " Are there any more of his things 1 " asked 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 Ann, her black eyes flashing, with the tears in 
 them. 
 
 " I think they've seen about all. There's his 
 blue jacket he used to milk in, a-hanging behind 
 the shed door — I guess they haven't valued that 
 yet." 
 
 " I think it's a shame ! " quoth Ann. " I don't 
 believe there's any need of so much law." 
 
 " Hush, child ! You mustn't set yourself up 
 against the judgment of your elders. Such 
 things have to be done." 
 
 Ann said no more, but the indignant sparkle 
 did not fade out of her eyes at all. She watched 
 her opportunity, and took down Mr. Wales's old 
 blue jacket from its peg behind the shed door, 
 ran with it up-stairs and hid it in her own room 
 behind the bed. " There," said she, " Mrs. Wales 
 sha'n't cry over that ! " 
 
 That night, at tea-time, the work of taking the 
 inventory was complete. Mr. Whitcomb and 
 Mr. White walked away with their long lists, 
 satisfied that they had done their duty according 
 to the law. Every article of Samuel Wales's 
 property, from a warming-pan to a chest of 
 
54 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 drawers, was set down, with the sole exception 
 of that old blue jacket which Ann had hidden. 
 
 She felt complacent over it at first ; then she 
 begun to be uneasy. 
 
 " Nabby," said she, -confidentially, to the old 
 servant woman, when they were washing the 
 pewter plates together after supper, " what 
 would they do, if anybody shouldn't let them 
 set down all the things — if they hid some of 
 'em away, I mean ? " 
 
 " They'd make a dretf ul time on't," said Nabby, 
 impressively. She was a large, stern-looking old 
 woman. " They air dretful perticklar 'bout these 
 things. They hev to be." 
 
 Ann \vas scared when she heard that. When 
 the dishes were done, she sat down on the settle 
 and thought it over, and made up her mind what 
 to do. 
 
 The next morning, in the frosty dawning, be- 
 fore the rest of the family were up, a slim, erect 
 little figure could have been seen speeding across 
 lots toward Mr. Silas White's. She had the old 
 blue jacket tucked under her arm. When she 
 reached the house, she spied Mr. White just 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 coming out of the back door with a milking pail. 
 He carried a lantern, too, for it was hardly light. 
 
 He stopped, and stared, when Ann ran up to 
 him. 
 
 " Mr. White," said she, all breathless, " here's 
 — something — I guess yer didn't see yesterday." 
 
 Mr. White set down the milk pail, took the 
 blue jacket which she handed him, and scruti- 
 nized it sharply, by the light of the lantern. 
 
 " I guess we didnt see it," said he, finally. 
 
 " I will put it down — it's worth about three 
 pence, I judge. Where — " 
 
 " Silas, Silas ! " called a shrill voice from the 
 house. Silas White dropped the jacket and 
 trotted briskly in, his lantern bobbing agitatedly. 
 He never delayed a moment when his wife 
 called ; important and tyrannical as the little 
 man was abroad, he had his own tyrant at home. 
 
 Ann did not wait for him to return ; she 
 snatched up the blue jacket and fled home, leap- 
 ing like a little deer over the hoary fields. She 
 hung up the precious old jacket behind the shed 
 door again, and no one ever knew the whole 
 story of its entrance in the inventory. If she 
 
56 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 had been questioned, she would have told the 
 truth boldly, though. But Samuel Wales's In- 
 ventory had for its last item that blue jacket, 
 spelled after Silas White's own individual 
 method, as was many another word in the long 
 list. Silas White consulted his own taste with 
 respect to capital letters, too. 
 
 After a few weeks. Grandma said she must 
 have Ann again ; and back she went. Grandma 
 was very feeble lately, and everybody humored 
 her. Mrs. Polly was sorry to have the little girl 
 leave her. She said it was wonderful how much 
 she had improved. But she would not have ad- 
 mitted that the improvement was owing to the 
 different influence she had been under ; she said 
 Ann had outgrown her mischievous ways. 
 
 Grandma did not live very long after this, how- 
 ever. Mrs. Polly had her bound girl at her own 
 disposal in a year's time. Poor Ann was sorrow- 
 ful enough for a long while after Grandma's 
 death. She wore the beloved gold beads around 
 her neck, and a sad ache in her heart. The dear 
 old woman had taken the beads off her neck 
 with her own hands and given them to Ann be- 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 fore she died, that there might be no mistake 
 about it. 
 
 Mrs. Polly said she was glad Ann had them. 
 " You might jist as well have 'em as Dorcas's 
 girl," said she ; " she set enough sight more by 
 you." 
 
 Ann could not help growing cheerful again, 
 after a while. Affairs in Mrs. Polly's house were 
 much brighter for her, in some ways, than they 
 had ever been before. 
 
 Either the hot iron of affliction had smoothed 
 some of the puckers out of her mistress's disposi- 
 tion, or she was growing, naturally, less sharp 
 and dictatorial. Anyway, she was becoming as 
 gentle and loving with Ann as it was in her 
 nature to be, and Ann, following her impulsive 
 temper, returned all the affection with vigor, and 
 never bestowed a thought on past unpleasantness. 
 
 For the next two years, Ann's position in the 
 family grew to be more and more that of a 
 daughter. If it had not been for the indentures 
 lying serenely in that tall, wooden desk, she 
 would almost have forgotten herself that she was 
 a bound girl. 
 
58 rN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 One spring- afternoon, when Ann was about 
 sixteen years old, her mistress called her sol- 
 emnly into the fore-room. '' Ann," said she, 
 " come here, I want to speak to you." 
 
 Nabby stared wonderingly; and Ann, as she 
 obeyed, felt awed. There was something unusual 
 in her mistress's tone. 
 
 Standing there in the fore-room, in the august 
 company of the best bed, with its high posts 
 and flowered-chintz curtains, the best chest of 
 drawers, and the best chairs, Ann listened to 
 what Mrs. Polly had to tell her. It was a plan 
 which almost took her breath away; for it was 
 this: Mrs. Polly proposed to adopt her, and 
 change her name to Wales. She would be no 
 fonger Ann Ginnins, and a bound girl ; but Ann 
 Wales, and a daughter in her mother's home. 
 
 Ann dropped into one of the best chairs, and 
 sat there, her little dark face very pale. " Should 
 I have the — papers ? " she gasped at length. 
 
 " Your papers ? Yes, child, you can have 
 them." 
 
 " I don't want them ! " cried Ann. " Never. I 
 want them to stay just where they are till my 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 time is out. If I am adopted, I don't want the 
 papers ! " 
 
 Mrs. Polly stared. She had never known how 
 Ann had taken the indentures with her on her 
 runaway trip years ago, but now Ann told her the 
 whole story. In her gratitude to her mistress, 
 and her contrition, she had to. 
 
 It was so long ago in Ann's childhood, it did 
 not seem so very dreadful to Mrs. Polly, probably. 
 But Ann insisted on the indentures remaining in 
 the desk, even after the papers of adoption were 
 made out, and she had become " Ann Wales." 
 It seemed to go a little way toward satisfying 
 her conscience. This adoption meant a good 
 deal to Ann ; for, besides a legal home and a 
 mother, it secured to her a right in a comfortable 
 property in the future. Mrs. Polly Wales was 
 considered very well off. She was a smart busi- 
 ness woman, and knew how to take care of her 
 property, too. She still hired Phineas Adams to 
 carry on the blacksmith's business, and kept her 
 farm-work running just as her husband had. 
 Neither she nor Ann were afraid of work, and 
 Ann Wales used to milk the cows, and escort 
 
6o IN COLONIAL ' TIMES. 
 
 them to and from pasture, as faithfully as Ann 
 Ginnins. 
 
 It was along in spring-time when Ann was 
 adopted, and Mrs. Polly fulfilled her part of the 
 contract in the indentures by getting the Sunday 
 suit therein spoken of. 
 
 They often rode on horseback to meeting, but 
 they usually walked on the fine Sundays in spring. 
 Ann had probably never been so happy in her 
 life as she was walking by Mrs. Polly's side to 
 meeting that first Sunday after her adoption. 
 Most of the way was through the woods ; the 
 tender light green boughs met over their heads ; 
 the violets and anemones were springing beside 
 their path. There were green buds and white 
 blossoms all around ; the sky showed blue be- 
 tween the waving branches, and the birds were 
 singing. 
 
 Ann, in her pretty petticoat of rose-colored 
 stuff, stepping daintily over the young grass and 
 the flowers, looked and felt like a part of it all. 
 Her dark cheeks had a beautiful red glow or 
 them ; her black eyes shone. She was as straight 
 and graceful and stately as an Indian. 
 
THE ADOPTI'.n DAUGHTER. 6 1 
 
 " She's as handsome as a picture," thought 
 Mrs. Polly in her secret heart. A good many 
 people said that Ann resembled Mrs. Polly in 
 her youth, and that may have added force to her 
 admiration. 
 
 Her new gown was very fine for those days ; 
 but fine as she was, and adopted daughter though 
 she was, Ann did not omit her thrifty ways for 
 once. This identical morning Mrs. Polly and 
 she carried their best shoes under their arms, 
 and wore their old ones, till within a short dis- 
 tance from the meeting-house. Then the old 
 shoes were tucked away under a stone wall for 
 safety, and the best ones put on. Stone walls, 
 very likely, sheltered a good many well-worn 
 little shoes, of a Puritan Sabbath, that their 
 prudent owners might appear in the house of 
 God trimly shod. Ah, these beautiful, new, 
 peaked-toed, high-heeled shoes of Ann's, — what 
 would she have said to walking in them all the 
 way to meeting ! 
 
 If that Sunday was an eventful one to Ann 
 Wales, so was the week following. The next 
 Tuesday, right after dinner, she was up in a little 
 
62 JN COLOA'IAL TIMES. 
 
 unfinished chamber over the kitchen, where they 
 did such work when the weather permitted, card- 
 ing wool. All at once she heard voices down 
 below. They had a strange inflection, which 
 gave her warning at once. She dropped her 
 work and listened. "What is the matter.?" 
 thought she. 
 
 Then there was a heavy tramp on the stairs 
 and Captain Abraham French stood in the 
 door, his stern, weather-beaten face white and 
 set. Mrs. Polly followed him, looking very 
 pale and excited. 
 
 " When did you see anything of our Han- 
 nah 1 " asked Captain French, controlling as 
 best he could the tremor in his resolute voice. 
 
 Ann rose, gathering up her big blue apron, 
 cards, wool, and all. '' Oh," she cried, " not since 
 last Sabbath, at meeting ! What is it 1 " 
 
 " She's lost," answered Captain French. " She 
 started to go up to her Aunt Sarah's Monday 
 forenoon, and Enos has just been down, and 
 they haven't seen anything of her." Poor Cap- 
 tain French gave a deep groan. 
 
 Then they all went down into the kitchen 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 together, talking and lamenting. And then, 
 Captain French was galloping away on his 
 gray horse to call assistance, and Ann was fly- 
 ing away over the fields, blue apron, cards, wool, 
 and all. 
 
 " Oh, Ann j " Mrs. Polly cried after, " where are 
 you going 1 " 
 
 " I'm going — to find — Hannah /" Ann shouted 
 back, in a shrill, desperate voice, and kept on. 
 
 She had no definite notion as to where she 
 was going ; she had only one thought, — Han- 
 nah French, her darhng, tender little Hannah 
 French, her friend whom she loved better than 
 a sister, was lost. 
 
 A good three miles from the Wales home was 
 a large tract of rough land, half swamp, known 
 as " Bear Swamp." There was an opinion, more 
 or less correct, that bears might be found there. 
 Some had been shot in that vicinity. Why Ann 
 turned her footsteps in that direction, she could 
 not have told herself. Possibly the vague impres- 
 sion of conversations she and Hannah had had, 
 lingering in her mind, had something to do with 
 it. Many a time the two little girls had remarked 
 
64 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 to each other, with a shudder, " How awful it 
 would be to get lost in Bear Swamp. 
 
 Anyway, Ann went straight there, through 
 pasture and woodland, over ditches and stone 
 walls. She knew every step of the way for a 
 long distance. When she gradually got into 
 the unfamiliar wilderness of the swamp, a 
 thought struck her, — suppose she got lost 
 too ! It would be easy enough, — the unbroken 
 forest stretched for miles in some directions. 
 She would not find a living thing but Indians ; 
 and, maybe, wild beasts, the whole distance. 
 
 If she should get lost she would not find 
 Hannah, and the people would have to hunt 
 for her, too. But Ann had quick wits for an 
 emergency. She had actually carried those 
 cards, with a big wad of wool between them 
 all the time, in her gathered-up apron. Now 
 she began picking off little bits of wool . and 
 marking her way with them, sticking them on 
 the trees and bushes. Every few feet a fluffy 
 scrap of wool showed the road Ann had gone. 
 
 But poor Ann went on, farther and farther, — 
 and no sign of Hannah. She kept calHng.her, 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 from time to time, hallooing at the top of her 
 shrill, sweet voice : " Hannah ! Hannah ! Hannah 
 Fre-nch." 
 
 But never a response got the dauntless little 
 girl, slipping almost up to her knees, sometimes, 
 in black swamp-mud ; and sometimes stumbling 
 painfully over tree-stumps, and through tangled 
 undergrowth. 
 
 " I'll go till my wool gives out," said Ann 
 Wales ; then she used it more sparingly. 
 
 But it was almost gone before she thought she 
 heard in the distance a faint little cry in response 
 to her call : " Hannah ! Hannah Fre-nch ! " She 
 called again and listened. Yes ; she certainly did 
 hear a little cry off toward the west. Calling 
 from time to time, she went as nearly as she 
 could in that direction. The pitiful answering 
 cry grew louder and nearer; finally Ann could 
 distinguish Hannah's voice. 
 
 Wild with joy, she came at last upon her sit- 
 ting on a fallen hemlock-tree, her pretty face pale, 
 and her sweet blue eyes strained with terror. 
 
 " Oh, Hannah ! " 
 
 " Oh, Ann ! " 
 
66 ..IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 " How did you ever get here, Hannah ? " 
 "I — started for Aunt Sarah's — that morning," 
 explained Hannah, between sobs. " And — I 
 got frightened in the woods, about a mile from 
 father's. I saw something ahead I thought was 
 a bear. A great black thing ! Then I ran — 
 and, somehow, the first thing I knew, I was lost. 
 I walked and walked, and it seems to me I kept 
 coming right back to the same place. Finally, I 
 sat down here, and stayed ; I thought it was all 
 the way for me to be found." 
 
 " Oh, Hannah, what did you do last night ? " 
 " I stayed somewhere, under some pine-trees," 
 replied Hannah, with a shudder, "and I kept 
 hearing things — oh, Ann ! " 
 
 Ann hugged her sympathizingly. " I guess I 
 wouldn't have slept much if I had known," said 
 she. " Oh, Hannah, you haven't had anything to 
 eat ! Ain't you starved ? " 
 
 Hannah laughed faintly. " I ate up two whole 
 pumpkin pies I was carrying to Aunt Sarah," said 
 she. 
 
 " Oh, how lucky it was you had them ! " 
 
 " Yes ; mother called me back to get them, 
 
THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. 6/ 
 
 after I started. They were some new ones, made 
 with cream, and she thought Aunt Sarah would 
 Hke them." 
 
 Pretty soon they started. It was hard work ; for 
 the way was very rough, and poor Hannah weak. 
 But Ann had a good deal of strength in her lithe 
 young frame, and she half carried Hannah over 
 the worst places. Still, both of the girls were 
 pretty well spent when they came to the last of 
 the bits of wool on the border of Bear Swamp. 
 However, they kept on a little farther ; then they 
 had to stop and rest. " I know where I am now," 
 said Hannah, with a sigh of delight ; " but I don't 
 think I can walk another step." She was, in 
 fact, almost exhausted. 
 
 Ann looked at her thoughtfully. She hardly 
 knew what to do. She could not carry Hannah 
 herself, — indeed, her own strength began to fail ; 
 and she did not want to leave her to go for 
 assistance. 
 
 All of a sudden she jumped up. " You stay 
 just where you are a few minutes, Hannah," said 
 she. " I'm going somewhere. I'll be back soon." 
 Ann was laughing. 
 
68 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Hannah looked up at her pitifully: " Oh, Ann, 
 don't go ! " 
 
 " I'm coming right back, and it is the only 
 way. You must get home. Only think how 
 your father and mother are worrying ! " 
 
 Hannah said no more after that mention of 
 her parents, and Ann started. 
 
 She was not gone long. When she came in 
 sight she was laughing, and Hannah, weak as 
 she was, laughed too. Ann had torn her blue 
 apron into strips, and tied it together for a rope, 
 and by it she was leading a red cow. 
 
 Hannah knew the cow, and knew at once what 
 the plan was. 
 
 " Oh, Ann, you mean for me to ride Betty ! " 
 
 " Of course I do. I just happened to think 
 our cows were in the pasture, down below here. 
 And we've ridden Betty lots of times, when we 
 were children, and she's just as gentle now. 
 Whoa, Betty, good cow." 
 
 It was very hard work to get Hannah on to the 
 broad back of her novel steed, but it was finally 
 accomplished. Betty had been a perfect pet 
 from a calf, and was exceedingly gentle. She 
 

THE ADOPTED DAUGHTER. f\ 
 
 started off soberly across the fields, with Hannah 
 sitting on her back and Ann leading her by her 
 blue rope. 
 
 It was a funny cavalcade for Captain Abraham 
 French and a score of anxious men to meet, 
 when they were nearly in sight of home ; but they 
 were too overjoyed to see much fun in it. 
 
 Hannah rode the rest of the way with her 
 father on his gray horse; and Ann walked joy- 
 fully by her side, leading the cow. 
 
 Captain French and his friends had, in fact, 
 just started to search Bear Swamp, well armed 
 with lanterns, for night was coming on. 
 
 It was dark when they got home. Mrs. French 
 was not much more delighted to see her beloved 
 daughter Hannah safe again, than Mrs. Polly was 
 to see Ann. 
 
 She listened admiringly to the story Ann told. 
 
 " Nobody but you would have thought of the 
 wool or of the cow," said she. 
 
 " I do declare," cried Ann, at the mention of 
 the wool, " I have lost the cards ! " 
 
 " Never mind the cards 1 " said Mrs. Polly. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE " HORSE HOUSE " DEED. 
 
 Know all Men By These Presents, that I Seth Towner of 
 Braintree, in the County of Suffolk & Province of the Massa- 
 chusetts Bay in New England, Gent. In Consideration that 
 I may promote & encourage the worship of God, I have 
 given liberty to Ephriam, and Atherton Wales, & Th'o:" 
 Penniman of Stoughton who attend Publick worship with us 
 to erect a Stable or Horse House, on my Land near the 
 Meeting House, in the South Precinct in Braintree afores : *, 
 to serve their Horses, while attending the service of God — 
 and to the intent that the s : ^ Ephriam, Atherton & Thomas, 
 their Heirs or assignes shall and may hereafter So long as 
 they or any of them incline or Desire to keep up & maintain 
 a Horse House for the afores : * use and Purpose ; have 
 s : "^ Land whereon s : * House Stands without mollestation : 
 I the said Seth Towner for my Selfe, my Heirs, exec, and 
 admin. : Do hereby Covenant promise bind & oblige my 
 selfe & them to warrant & Defend the afores : * Privilege 
 of Land. To the s : * Ephriam Wales, Atherton Wales, & 
 Tho : ° Penniman their Heirs or assignes So long as they or 
 any of them keep a Horse House their, for the afores :* use : 
 
 72 
 
THE "HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 73 
 
 they keeping s : * House in Such repair at all times, as that 
 I the s : '' Seth Towner, my Heirs or assignes, may not 
 receive Damage by any Creature Coming through s : "^ House 
 into my Land adjoining. In Witness Whereof, I the s : "^ 
 Seth Towner have hereunto set my Hand & Seal the first 
 Day of November One Thous. and Seven Hundred Sixty 
 & four : in the fifth year of his Majesty's Reign George the 
 third King etc. 
 
 Signed Sealed and Del : "^ 
 presence of Seth TovifNER, 
 
 Daniel Linfield, Simeon Thayer. 
 
 Ann's two uncles by adoption, and Thomas 
 Penniman, of Stoughton, were well pleased to 
 get this permission to erect a stable, or Horse 
 House, as they put it then, to shelter their horses 
 during divine worship. The want of one had 
 long been a sore inconvenience to them. The 
 few stables already erected around the meeting- 
 house could not accommodate half of the horses 
 congregated there on a Puritan Sabbath, and 
 every barn, for a quarter of a mile about, was 
 put into requisition on severe days. After the 
 women had dismounted from their pillions at 
 the meeting-house door, the men-folks patiently 
 rode the horses to some place of shelter, and 
 
74 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 then trudged back through the snow-drifts, wres- 
 tling with the icy wind. 
 
 So this new "Horse House " was a great bene- 
 fit to the Waleses, and to the Pennimans, who 
 hved three miles from them over the Stough- 
 ton line. They were all constant meeting-folks. 
 Hard indeed was the storm which could keep a 
 Wales or a Penniman away from meeting. 
 
 Mrs. Polly Wales's horses were accommodated 
 in this new stable also. In the winter-time there 
 were two of them ; one which she and Ann rode, 
 Ann using the pillion, and one for Nabby Por- 
 ter. Phineas Adams always walked. Often the 
 sturdy young blacksmith was at the meeting- 
 house before the women, and waiting to take 
 their horses. 
 
 One Sunday, the winter after the Horse House 
 was built, Mrs. Polly, Ann, Phineas, and Nabby 
 went to meeting as usual. It was a very cold, 
 bleak day; the wind blew in through the slight 
 wooden walls of the old meeting-house, and the 
 snow lay in little heaps here and there. There 
 was no stove in the building, as every one knows. 
 Some of the women had hot bricks and little 
 
THE '^ HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 75 
 
 foot-stoves, and that was all. Ann did not care 
 for either. She sat up straight in the comfort- 
 less, high-backed pew. Her cheeks were as red 
 as her crimson cloak, her black eyes shone like 
 stars. She let Mrs. Polly and Nabby have the 
 hot stones, but her own agile little feet were as 
 warm as toast. Little Hannah French, over 
 across the meeting-house, looked chilled and 
 blue, but somehow Ann never seemed to be 
 affected much by the cold. 
 
 The Wales pew was close to a window on the 
 south side, — the side where the new stable was. 
 Indeed Ann could see it if she looked out. She 
 sat next the window because the other women 
 minded the draught more. 
 
 Right across the aisle from Mrs. Polly's pew 
 was Thomas Penniman's. He was there with 
 his wife, and six stalwart sons. The two young- 
 est, Levi and John, were crowded out of the pew 
 proper, and sat in the one directly back. 
 
 John sat at the end. He was a tall, handsome 
 young fellow, two or three years older than Ann. 
 He was well spoken of amongst his acquaint- 
 ances for two reasons. First, on account of his 
 
76 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 own brave, steady character; and second, on 
 account of his owning one of the finest horses 
 anywhere about. A good horse was, if anything, 
 a more important piece of property then than 
 now. This one was a beautiful bay. They called 
 him " Red Robin." 
 
 To-day, Red Robin was carefully blanketed 
 and fastened in the new stable. John thought 
 when he tied him there how thankful he was he 
 had such a good shelter this bitter day. He felt 
 grateful to Lieut. Seth Turner, who owned all 
 the land hereabouts and had given the liberty 
 to build it. 
 
 The people all sat quietly listening to the long 
 sermon. Two hours long it was. When the min- 
 ister, perched up in his beetling pulpit with the 
 sounding-board over his head, was about half 
 through his discourse, Ann Wales happened to 
 glance out of the window at her side. She rarely 
 did such a thing in meeting-time ; indeed she 
 had been better instructed. How she happened 
 to to-day, she could not have told, but she did. 
 
 It was well she did. Just at that moment, a 
 man in a gray cloak sprang into the Horse 
 
THE -'HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 7/ 
 
 House, and began untying John Penniman's 
 Red Robin. 
 
 Ann gave one glance ; then she never hesi- 
 tated. There was no time to send whispers 
 along the pew ; to tell Phineas Adams to give 
 the alarm. 
 
 Out of the pew darted Ann, like a red robin 
 herself, her red cloak flying back, crowding 
 nimbly past the others, across the aisle to John 
 Penniman. 
 
 " Somebody's stealing Red Robin, John," said 
 she, in a clear whisper. They heard it for sev- 
 eral pews around. Up sprang the pewful of 
 staunch Pennimans, father and sons, and made 
 for the door in a great rush after John, who was 
 out before the whisper had much more than left 
 Ann's lips. 
 
 The alarm spread ; other men went, too. The 
 minister paused, and the women waited. Finally 
 the men returned, all but a few who were detailed 
 to watch the horses through the remainder of the 
 services, and the meeting proceeded. 
 
 Phineas sent the whisper along the pew, that 
 John had got out in time to save Red Robin ; 
 
78 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 but the robber had escaped. Somehow he had 
 taken alarm before John got there. Red Robin 
 was standing in the stable untied ; but the robber 
 had disappeared. 
 
 After meeting the people all came and ques- 
 tioned Ann. " He was a very tall man, in a gray 
 cloak," said she. " He turned his face, or I saw 
 it, just for one second, when I looked. He had 
 black eyes and a dark curling beard." 
 
 It seemed very extraordinary. If it had not 
 been for Red Robin's being untied, they would 
 almost have doubted if Ann had seen rightly- 
 The thief had disappeared so suddenly and 
 utterly, it almost seemed impossible that he 
 could have been there at all. 
 
 There was much talk over it after meeting. 
 " Are you sure you saw him, Ann ? " Mrs. Polly 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, I am sure" Ann would reply. She 
 began to feel rather uncomfortable over it. She 
 feared people would think she had been napping 
 and dreaming although Red Robin was untied. 
 
 That night the family were all in bed at nine 
 o'clock, as usual ; but Ann up in her snug feather- 
 
THE "HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 79 
 
 bed in her little western chamber could not 
 sleep. She kept thinking about the horse thief, 
 and grew more and more nervous. Finally she 
 thought of some fine linen cloth she and Mrs. 
 Polly had left out in the snowy field south of the 
 house to bleach, and she worried about that. A 
 web of linen cloth and a horse were very dissimi- 
 lar booty ; but a thief was a thief. Suppose any- 
 thing should happen to the linen they had worked 
 so hard over ! 
 
 At last, she could not endure it any longer. 
 Up she got, put on her clothes hurriedly, crept 
 softly down-stairs and out-doors. There was a 
 full moon and it was almost as light as day. 
 The snow looked like a vast sheet of silver 
 stretching far away over the fields. 
 
 Ann was hastening along the path between 
 two high snowbanks when all of a sudden she 
 stopped, and gave a choked kind of a scream. 
 No one with nerves could have helped it. Right 
 in the path before her stood the horse thief, gray 
 cloak and all. 
 
 Ann turned, after her scream and first wild 
 stare, and ran. But the man caught her before 
 
So IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 she had taken three steps. " Don't scream," he 
 said, in a terrible, anxious whisper. " Don't make 
 a noise, for God's sake ! They're after me ! Can't 
 you hide me .? " 
 
 " No," said Ann, white and trembhng all over, 
 but on her mettle, " I won't. You are a sinful 
 man, and you ought to be punished. I won't do 
 a thing to help you ! " 
 
 The man's face bending over her was ghastly 
 in the moonlight. He went on pleading. " If 
 you will hide me somewhere about your place, 
 they will not find me," said he, still in that sharp, 
 agonized whisper. " They are after me — can't 
 you hear them } " 
 
 Ann could, listening, hear distant voices on 
 the night air. 
 
 " I was just going to hide in your barn," said 
 the thief, " when I met you. Oh, let me in there, 
 now ! Don't betray me ! " 
 
 Great tears were rolling down his bearded 
 cheeks. Ann began to waver. " They might 
 look in the barn," said she, hesitatingly. 
 
 The man followed up his advantages. " Then 
 hide me in the house," said he. " I have a 
 
dh,x%i\.. M 
 
THE ^' HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 83 
 
 daughter at home, about your age. She's wait- 
 ing for me, and it's long she'll wait, and sad 
 news she'll get at the end of the waiting, if you 
 don't help me. She hasn't any mother, she's a 
 little tender thing — it'll kill her ! " He groaned 
 as he said it. 
 
 The voices came nearer. Ann hesitated no 
 longer. " Come," said she, " quick ! " 
 
 Then she fled into the house, the man follow- 
 ing. Inside, she bolted the door, and made her 
 unwelcome guest take off his boots in the 
 kitchen, and follow her softly up-stairs with 
 them in his hand. 
 
 Ann's terror, leading him up, almost over- 
 whelmed her. What if anybody should wake ! 
 Nabby slept near the head of the stairs. Luck- 
 ily, she was a little deaf, and Ann counted on 
 that. 
 
 She conducted the man across a little entry 
 into a back, unfurnished chamber, where, among 
 other things, were stored some chests of grain. 
 The moon shone directly in the window of the 
 attic chamber, so it was light enough to distin- 
 guish objects quite plainly. 
 
84 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Ann tiptoed softly from one grain-chest to an- 
 other. There were three of them. Two were 
 quite full ; the third was nearly empty. 
 
 " Get in here," said Ann. " Don't make any 
 noise." 
 
 He climbed in obediently, and Ann closed the 
 lid. The chest was a rickety old affair and full 
 of cracks, — there was no danger but he would 
 have air enough. She heard the voices out in 
 the yard, as she shut the lid. Back she crept 
 softly into her own room, undressed, and got into 
 bed. She could hear the men out in the yard 
 quite plainly. " We've lost him again," she 
 heard one of them say. 
 
 Presently Phineas Adams opened a window, 
 and shouted out, to know what was the matter. 
 
 "Seen anything of the horse thief.?" queried a 
 voice from the yard. 
 
 " No ! " said Phineas. " I have been asleep 
 these three hours. You just waked me up." 
 
 " He was hiding under the meeting-house," 
 said the voice, " must have slipped in there this 
 morning, when we missed him. We went down 
 there and watched to-night, and almost caught 
 
THE "HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 85 
 
 him. But he disappeared a httle below here, 
 and we've lost him again. It's my opinion he's 
 an evil spirit in disguise. He ran like the wind, 
 in amongst the trees, where we couldn't follow 
 with the horses. Are you sure he did not skulk 
 in here somewhere .? Sim White thinks he did." 
 
 " I knew I saw him turn the corner of the 
 lane," chimed in another voice, " and we've . 
 scoured the woods." 
 
 " I think we'd better search the barn, anyhow," 
 some one else said, and a good many murmured 
 assent. 
 
 " Wait a minute, I'll be down," said Phineas, 
 shutting his window. 
 
 How long poor Ann lay there shaking, she 
 never knew. It seemed hours. She heard 
 Phineas go down-stairs, and unlock the door. 
 She heard them tramp into the barn. " Oh, if I 
 had hidden him there ! " she thought. 
 
 After a while she heard them out in the yard 
 again. " He could not have gotten into the 
 house, in any way," she heard one man remark, 
 speculatively. How she waited for the response. 
 It came in Phineas Adams's slow, sensible tones, 
 
86 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 " How could he ? Didn't you hear me unbolt 
 the door when I came out ? The doors are all 
 fastened, I saw to it myself." 
 
 " Well, of course he didn't," agreed the 
 voice. 
 
 At last Phineas came in, and Ann heard them 
 go. She was so thankful. However, the future 
 perplexities, which lay before her, were enough to 
 keep her awake for the rest of the night. In the 
 morning a new anxiety beset her. The poor thief 
 must have some breakfast. She could easily have 
 smuggled some dry bread up to him, but she did 
 want him to have some of the hot Indian mush, 
 which the family had. Ann, impulsive in this as 
 everything, now that she had made up her mind 
 to protect a thief, wanted to do it handsomely. 
 She did want him to have some of that hot 
 mush ; but how could she manage it ? 
 
 The family at the breakfast-table discussed the 
 matter of the horse thief pretty thoroughly. It 
 was a hard ordeal for poor Ann, who could not 
 take easily to deception. She had unexpected 
 trouble, too, with Nabby. Nabby had waked up 
 the preceding night. 
 
THE "IIOKSE HOUSE" DEED. 87 
 
 "I didn't see anything," proclaimed Nabby; 
 " but I heerd a noise. I think there's mice out 
 in the grain-chist in the back chamber." 
 
 " I must go up there and look," said Mrs. 
 Polly. " They did considerable mischief last 
 year." 
 
 Ann turned pale; what if she should take it 
 into her head to look that day ! 
 
 She watched her chance very narrowly for the 
 hot mush ; and after breakfast she caught a min- 
 ute when Phineas had gone to work and Mrs. 
 Polly was in the pantry, and Nabby down cellar. 
 She had barely time to fill a bowl with mush, and 
 scud. 
 
 How lightly she stepped over that back cham- 
 ber floor, and how gingerly she opened the grain- 
 chest lid. The thief looked piteously out at her 
 from his bed of Indian corn. He was a hand- 
 some man, somewhere between forty and fifty. 
 Indeed, he came of a very good family in a town 
 not so very far away. Horse thieves numbered 
 some very respectable personages in their clan in 
 those days sometimes. 
 
 They carried on a whispered conversation 
 
88 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 while he ate. It was arranged that Ann was to 
 assist him off that night. 
 
 What a day poor Ann had, Hstening and watch- 
 ing in constant terror every moment, for fear 
 something would betray her. Besides, her con- 
 science troubled her sadly ; she was far from 
 being sure that she was doing right in hiding a 
 thief from justice. But the poor man's tears, 
 and the mention of his daughter, had turned the 
 scale with her ; she could not give him up. 
 
 Her greatest fear was lest Mrs. Polly should 
 take a notion to search for mice in the grain- 
 chests. She so hoped Nabby would not broach 
 the subject again. But there was a peculiarity 
 about Nabby, — she had an exceedingly bitter 
 hatred of rats and mice. Still there was no 
 danger of her investigating the grain-chests on 
 her own account, for she was very much afraid. 
 She would not have lifted one of those lids, with 
 the chance of a rat or mouse being under it, for 
 the world. If ever a mouse was seen in the 
 kitchen Nabby took immediate refuge on the set- 
 tle or the table and left some one else to do the 
 fighting. 
 
THE "HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 89 
 
 So Nabby, being so constituted, could not be 
 easy on the subject this time. All day long she 
 heard rats and mice in the grain-chests ; she 
 stopped and listened with her broom, and 
 she stopped and listened with her mop. 
 
 Ann went to look, indeed that was the way 
 she smuggled the thief's dinner to him, but her 
 report of nothing the matter with the grain did 
 not satisfy Nabby. She had more confidence in 
 Mrs. Polly. But Mrs. Polly did not offer to in- 
 vestigate herself until after supper. They had 
 been very busy that day, washing, and now there 
 was churning to do. Ann sat at the churn, Mrs. 
 Polly was cutting up apples for pies, and Nabby 
 was washing dishes, when the rats and mice 
 smote her deaf ears again. 
 
 " I knew I heerd 'em then," she said ; " I don't 
 believe but what them grain-chists is full of 
 'em." 
 
 " I am going to look," quoth Mrs. Polly then, 
 in a tone of decision, and straightway she rose 
 and got a candle. 
 
 Ann's heart beat terribly. " Oh, I wouldn't go 
 up there to-night," said she. 
 
90 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 " Yes, I am going. I'm going to satisfy Nabby 
 about the rats in the grain-chest, if I can." 
 
 She was out the door, at the foot of the stairs, 
 Nabby behind her, dish-cloth and plate in hand, 
 peering fearfully over her shoulder. Ann was in 
 despair. Only one chance of averting the dis- 
 covery suggested itself to her. It was a dread- 
 ful one, but she took it. She tipped over the 
 chtirn. " Oh, oh ! " she screamed. Back rushed 
 Mrs. Polly and Nabby, and that ended the rat- 
 hunt for that night. The waste of all that beau- 
 tiful cream was all Mrs. Polly could think of — 
 prudent housewife that she was. 
 
 So in the night, when the moon was up, and 
 the others were sound asleep, Ann assisted her 
 thief safely out of the grain-chest and out of the 
 house. " But first," said Ann Wales, pausing 
 bravely, with her hand on the grain-chest lid, 
 speaking in a solemn whisper, " before I let you 
 out, you must make me a promise." 
 
 " What .? " came back feebly. 
 
 " That you will never, never, steal a horse 
 again. ' If you don't promise, I will give you up, 
 now." 
 
THE "HOJiSE HOUSE" DEED. 9 1 
 
 " I promise I won't," said the man, readily. 
 
 Let us hope he never did. That, speeding 
 out into the clear winter night, he did bear with 
 him a better determination in his heart. At all 
 events, there were no more attempts made to 
 rob the new Horse House at the Braintree 
 meeting-house. Many a Sunday after that, 
 Red Robin stood there peaceful and unmolested. 
 Occasionally, as the years went by, he was tied, 
 of a Sunday night, in Mrs. Polly Wales's 
 barn. 
 
 For, by and by, his master, good, brave young 
 John Penniman, married Ann Wales. The 
 handsomest couple that ever went into the meet- 
 ing-house, people said. Ann's linen chest was 
 well stocked ; and she had an immense silk bon- 
 net, with a worked white veil, a velvet cloak, and 
 a flowered damask petticoat for her wedding 
 attire. Even Hannah French had nothing finer 
 when she was married to Phineas Adams a year 
 later. 
 
 All the drawback to the happiness was that 
 John had taken some land up in Vermont, and 
 there the young couple went, shortly after the 
 
92 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 wedding. It was a great cross to Mrs, Polly ; 
 but she bore it bravely. Not a tear sparkled in 
 her black eyes, watching the pair start off down 
 the bridle-path, riding Red Robin, Ann on a pil- 
 lion behind her husband. But sitting down 
 beside her lonely hearth when she entered the 
 house, she cried bitterly. " I did hope I could 
 keep Ann with me as long as I lived," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 " Don't you take on," said Nabby, consolingly. 
 " You take my word for't, they'll be back afore 
 long." 
 
 Nabby proved a true prophet. Red Robin did 
 come trotting back from the Vermont wilds, bear- 
 ing his master and mistress before long. Various 
 considerations induced them to return ; and Mrs. 
 Polly was overjoyed. They came to live with 
 her. 
 
 Riding through the wilderness to Vermont on 
 their wedding journey, Ann had confessed to her 
 husband how she had secreted the thief who had 
 tried to steal his Red Robin. She had been 
 afraid to tell ; but he had turned on the saddle, 
 and smiled down in her face. " I am content 
 
THE "HORSE HOUSE" DEED. 93 
 
 that the man is safe," said John Penniman. 
 " Prithee, why should I wish him evil, whilst I 
 am riding along with thee, on Red Robin, 
 Ann?" 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE 
 
 9S 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. 
 
 Patience Mather was saying the seven-multi- 
 plication table, when she heard a heavy shuffling 
 step in the entry. 
 
 " That is Squire Bean," whispered her friend, 
 Martha Joy, who stood at her elbow. 
 
 Patience stopped short in horror. Her es- 
 pecial bugbear in mathematics was eight-times- 
 seven ; she was coming toward it fast — could 
 she remember it with old Squire Beail looking 
 at her ? 
 
 " Go on," said the teacher, severely. She was 
 quite young, and also stood in some awe of 
 Squire Bean, but she did not wish her pupils 
 to discover it, so she pretended to ignore that 
 step in the entry. Squire Bean walked with 
 a heavy gilt-headed cane which always went 
 clump, clump, at every step ; besides he shuffled 
 — one could always tell who was coming. 
 
 97 
 
98 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 " Seven times seven," begun Patience, trem- 
 bling — then the door opened — there stood 
 Squire Bean. 
 
 The teacher rose promptly. She tried to be 
 very easy and natural, but her pretty round 
 cheeks turned red and white by turns. 
 
 " Good morning. Squire Bean," said she. 
 Then she placed a chair on the platform for 
 him. 
 
 ■' Good morning," said he, and seated himself 
 in a lumbering way — he was rather stiff , with 
 rheumatism. He was a large old man in a 
 green camlet cloak with brass buttons. 
 
 " You may go on with the exercises," said he 
 to the teacher, after he had adjusted himself 
 and wiped his face solemnly with a great red 
 handkerchief. 
 
 " Go on. Patience," said the teacher. 
 
 So Patience piped up in her little weak so- 
 prano : " Seven times seven are forty-nine. 
 Eight times seven are — " She stopped short. 
 Then she begun over again — " Eight times 
 seven — " . 
 
 The class with toes on the crack all swayed 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. ' 99 
 
 forward to look at her, the pupils at the foot 
 stepped off till they swung it into a half-circle. 
 Hands came up and gyrated wildly. 
 
 " Back on the line ! " said the teacher, sternly. 
 Then they stepped back, but the hands indica- 
 tive of superior knowledge still waved, the coarse 
 jacket-sleeves and the gingham apron-sleeves 
 slipping back from the thin childish wrists. 
 
 " Eight times seven are eighty-nine," declared 
 Patience, desperately. The hands shook fran- 
 tically, some of the owners stepped off the line 
 again in their eagerness. 
 
 Patience's cheeks were red as poppies, her 
 eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " You may try once more, Patience," said the 
 teacher, who was distressed herself. She feared 
 lest Squire Bean might think that it was her 
 fault, and that she was not a competent teacher, 
 because Patience Mather did not know eight- 
 times-seven. 
 
 So Patience started again — "Eight times 
 seven — " She paused for a mighty mental 
 effort — she must get it right this time. " Six — " 
 she began feebly. 
 
100 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 " What ! " said Squire Bean, suddenly, in a 
 deep voice which sounded like a growl. 
 
 Then all at once poor little Patience heard a 
 whisper sweet as an angel's in her ear : " Fifty- 
 six." 
 
 " Eight times seven are fifty-six," said she, 
 convulsively. 
 
 " Right," said the teacher, with a relieved look. 
 The hands went down. Patience stood with her 
 neat little shoes toeing out on the crack. It was 
 over. She had answered, she had not failed be- 
 fore Squire Bean. For a few minutes she could 
 think of nothing but that. 
 
 The rest of the class had their weak points, 
 moreover their strong points, overlooked in the 
 presence of the company. The first thing Pa- 
 tience knew, ever so many had missed in the 
 nine-table, and she had gone up to the head. 
 
 Standing there, all at once a terrible misgiv- 
 ing seized her. " I wouldn't have gone to the 
 head if I hadn't been told," she thought to her- 
 self. Martha was next below her; she knew 
 that question in the nines, her hand had been 
 up, so had John Allen's and Phoebe Adams's. 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. lOI 
 
 This was the last class before recess. Patience 
 went soberly out in the yard with the other girls. 
 There was a little restraint over all the scholars. 
 They looked with awe at the Squire's horse and 
 chaise. The horse was tied after a novel fashion, 
 an invention of the Squire's own. He had driven 
 a gimlet into the schoolhouse wall, and tied his 
 horse to it with a stout rope. Whenever the 
 Squire drove he carried with him his gimlet, in 
 'case there should be no hitching-post. Occa- 
 sionally house-owners rebelled, but it made no 
 difference ; the next time the Squire had occa- 
 sion to stop at their premises there was another 
 gimlet-hole in the wall. Few people could make 
 their way good against Squire Bean's. 
 
 There were a great many holes in the school- 
 house walls, for the Squire made frequent visits ; 
 he was one of the committee, and considered 
 himself very necessary for the well-being of the 
 school. Indeed if he had frankly spoken his 
 mind, he would probably have admitted that in 
 his estimation the school could not be properly 
 kept one day without his assistance. 
 
 Patience stood with her back against the 
 
102 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 school fence, and watched the others soberly. 
 The girls wanted her to play " Little Sally 
 Waters sitting in the sun," but she said no, she 
 didn't want to play. 
 
 Martha took hold of her arm and tried to pull 
 her into the ring, but she held back. 
 
 " What is the matter .? " said Martha. 
 
 " Nothing," Patience said, but her face was 
 full of trouble. There was a little wrinkle be- 
 tween her reflective brown eyes, and she drew 
 in her under lip after a way she had when dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 When the bell rang, the scholars filed in with 
 the greatest order and decorum. Even the most 
 frisky boys did no more than roll their eyes 
 respectfully in the Squire's direction as they 
 passed him, and they tiptoed on their bare feet 
 in the most cautious manner. 
 
 The Squire sat through the remaining exer- 
 cises, until it was time to close the school. 
 
 "You may put up your books," said the 
 teacher. There was a rustle and clatter, then a 
 solemn hush. They all sat with their arms 
 folded, looking expectantly at Squire Bean. The 
 
THE SQU IKE'S SIXPENCE. I03 
 
 teacher turned to him. Hei" cheeks were very 
 red, and she was very dignified, but her voice 
 shook a Httle. 
 
 " Won't you make some remarks to the 
 pupils ? " said she. 
 
 Then the Squire rose and cleared his throat. 
 The scholars did not pay much attention to what 
 he said, although they sat still, with their eyes 
 riveted on his face. But when, toward the close 
 of his remarks, he put his hand in his pocket, 
 and a faint jingling was heard, a thrill ran over 
 the school. 
 
 The Squire pulled out two silver sixpences, 
 and held them up impressively before the chil- 
 dren. Through a hole in each of them dangled 
 a palm-leaf strand ; and the Squire's own initial 
 was stamped on both. 
 
 " Thomas Arnold may stejo this way," said the 
 Squire. 
 
 Thomas Arnold had acquitted himself well in 
 geography, and to him the Squire duly presented 
 one of the sixpences. 
 
 Thomas bobbed, and pattered back to his seat 
 with all his mates staring and grinning at him. 
 
104 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Then Patience Mather's heart jumped, — 
 Squire Bean was bidding her step that way, on 
 account of her going to the head of the arith- 
 metic class. She sat still. There was a roaring 
 in her ears. Squire Bean spoke again. Then 
 the teacher interposed. " Patience," said she, 
 " did you not hear what Squire Bean said .? Step 
 this way." 
 
 Then Patience rose and dragged slowly down 
 the aisle. She hung her head, she dimly heard 
 Squire Bean speaking ; then the sixpence touched 
 her hand. Suddenly Patience looked up. There 
 was a vein of heroism in the little girl. Not far 
 back, some of her kin had been brave fighters 
 in the Revolution. Now their little descendant 
 went marching up to her own enemy in her own 
 way. She spoke right up before Squire Bean. 
 
 " I'd rather you'd give it to some one else," 
 said she, with a curtsy. " It doesn't belong to 
 me. I wouldn't have gone to the head if I hadn't 
 cheated." 
 
 Patience's cheeks were white, but her eyes 
 flashed. Squire Bean gasped, and turned it into 
 a cough. Then he begun asking her questions. 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. 10$ 
 
 Patience answered unflinchingly. She kept hold- 
 ing the sixpence toward him. 
 
 Finally he reached out and gave it a little 
 push back. 
 
 " Keep it," said he, "keep it, keep it. I don't 
 give it to you for going to the head, but because 
 you are an honest and truthful child." 
 
 Patience blushed pink to her little neck. She 
 curtsied deeply and returned to her seat, the 
 silver sixpence dangling from her agitated little 
 hand. She put her head down on her desk, and 
 cried, naw it was all over, and did not look up 
 till school was dismissed, and Martha Joy came 
 and put her arm around her and comforted her. 
 
 The two little girls were very close friends, 
 and were together all the time which they could 
 snatch out of school-hours. Not long after the 
 presentation of the sixpence, one night after 
 school. Patience's mother wanted her to go on 
 an errand to Nancy Gookin's hut. Nancy Goo- 
 kin was an Indian woman, who did a good many 
 odd jobs for the neighbors. Mrs. Mather was 
 expecting company, and she wanted her to come 
 the next day and assist her about some cleaning. 
 
Io6 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 Patience was usually willing enough, but to- 
 night she demurred. In fact she was a little 
 afraid of the Indian woman, who lived all alone 
 in a little hut on the edge of some woods. Her 
 mother knew it, but it was a foolish fear and she 
 did not encourage her in it. 
 
 " There is no sense in your being afraid of 
 Nancy," she said, with some severity. " She's 
 a good woman, if she is an Injun, and she is 
 always to be seen in the meeting-house of a 
 Sabbath day." 
 
 As her mother spoke, Patience could see 
 Nancy's dark, harsh old face peering over the 
 pew, where she and some of her nation sat to- 
 gether, Sabbath days, and the image made her 
 shudder in spite of its environments. However, 
 she finally put on her little sunbonnet and set 
 forth. It was a lovely summer twilight, she had 
 only about a quarter of a mile to go, but her 
 courage failed her more and more at every step. 
 Martha Joy lived on the way. When she reached 
 her house, she stopped and begged her to go 
 with her. Martha was obliging ; under ordinary 
 circumstances she would have gone with alacrity, 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. I07 
 
 but to-night she had a hard toothache. She 
 came to the door with her face all tied up in a 
 hop-poultice. " I'm 'fraid I can't go," she said, 
 dolefully. 
 
 But Patience begged and begged. " I'll spend 
 my sixpence that Uncle Joseph gave me, and 
 I'll buy you a whole card of peppermints," said 
 she, finally, by way of inducement. 
 
 That won the day. Martha got few sweets, 
 and if there was anything she craved, it was the 
 peppermints, which came, in those days, in big 
 beautiful cards, to be broken off at will. And 
 to have a whole card ! 
 
 So poor Martha tied her little flapping sun- 
 bonnet over her swollen cheeks, and went with 
 Patience to see Nancy Gookin, who received 
 the message thankfully, and did not do them the 
 least harm in the world. 
 
 Martha had really a very hard toothache. She 
 did not sleep much that night, for all the hop- 
 poultice, and she went to school the next day 
 feeling tired and cross. She was a nervous little 
 girl, and never bore illness very well. But to-day 
 she had one pleasant anticipation. She thought 
 
I08 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 often of that card of peppermints. It had cheered 
 her somewhat in her uneasy night. She thought 
 that Patience would surely bring them to school. 
 She came early herself and watched for her. She 
 entered quite late, just before the bell rang. 
 Martha ran up to her. " I haven't got the pep- 
 permints," said Patience, soberly. She had been 
 crying. 
 
 Martha straightened up : " Why not ? " 
 
 The tears welled out of Patience's eyes. " I 
 can't find that sixpence anywhere." 
 
 The tears came into Martha's eyes, too. She 
 looked as dignified as her poulticed face would 
 allow. " I never knew you told fibs, Patience 
 Mather," said she. " I don't believe my mother 
 will want me to go with you any more." 
 
 Just then the bell rung. Martha went crying 
 to her seat, and the others thought it was on 
 account of her toothache. Patience kept back 
 her tears. She was forming a desperate resolu- 
 tion. When recess came, she got perrnission to 
 go to the store which was quite near, and she 
 bought a card of peppermints^ with the Squire s 
 sixpence. She had pulled out the palm-leaf 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. IO9 
 
 strand on her way, thrusting it into her pocket 
 guiltily. She felt as if she were committing 
 sacrilege. These sixpences, which Squire Bean 
 bestowed upon worthy scholars from time to 
 time, were ostensibly for the purpose of book- 
 marks. That was the reason for the palm-leaf 
 strand. The Squire took the sixpences to the 
 blacksmith, who stamped them with B's, and 
 then, with his own hands, he adjusted the palm- 
 leaf. 
 
 The man who kept the store looked at the 
 sixpence curiously, when Patience proffered it. 
 
 " One of the Squire's sixpences ! " said he. 
 
 " Yes ; it's mine." That was the argument 
 which Patience had set forth to her own con- 
 science. It was certainly her own sixpence ; 
 the Squire had given it to her, — had she not 
 a right to do as she chose with it? 
 
 The man laughed ; his name was Ezra Tom- 
 kins, and he enjoyed a joke. He was privately 
 resolving to give that sixpence in change to 
 the old Squire and see what he would say. If 
 Patience had guessed his thoughts — 
 
 But she took the card of peppermints, and 
 
no IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 carried them to the appeased and repentant 
 and curious Martha, and waited further devel- 
 opments in trepidation. She had a presentiment 
 deep within her childish soul that some day she 
 would have a reckoning with Squire Bean con- 
 cerning his sixpence. 
 
 If by chance she had to pass his house, she 
 would hurry by at her utmost speed lest she be 
 intercepted. She got out of his way as fast as 
 she could if she spied his old horse and chaise 
 in the distance. Still she knew the day would 
 come ; and it did. 
 
 It was one Saturday afternoon ; school did not 
 keep, and she was all alone in the house with 
 Martha. Her mother had gone visiting. The 
 two little girls were playing " Holly Gull, Passed 
 how many," with beans in the kitchen, when the 
 door opened, and in walked Susan Elder. She 
 was a woman who lived at .Squire Bean's and 
 helped his wife with the housework. 
 
 The minute Patience saw her, she knew what 
 her errand was. She gave a great start. Then 
 she looked at Susan Elder with her big, frightened 
 eyes. 
 
THE SQUIRE 'S SIXPENCE. .Ill 
 
 Susan Elder was a stout old woman. She sat 
 down on the settle, and wheezed before she 
 spoke. " Squire Bean wants you to come up 
 to his house right away," said she, at last. 
 
 Patience trembled all over. " My mother is 
 gone away. I don't know as she would want 
 me to go," she ventured, despairingly. 
 
 " He wants you to come right away," said 
 Susan. 
 
 " I don't believe mother'd want me to leave 
 the house alone." 
 
 " I'll stay an' rest till you git back ; I'd jest as 
 soon. I'm all tuckered out comin' up the hill." 
 
 Patience was very pale. She cast an agonized 
 glance at Martha. " I spent the Squires sixpence 
 for those peppermints" she whispered. She had 
 not told her before. 
 
 Martha looked at her in horror, — then she 
 begun to cry. " Oh, I made you do it," she 
 sobbed. 
 
 " Won't you go with me ? " groaned Patience. 
 
 " One little gal is enough," spoke up Susan 
 Elder. " He won't like it if two goes." 
 
 That settled it. Poor little Patience Mather 
 
112 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 crept meekly out of the house and down the 
 hill to Squir,e Bean's, without even Martha's 
 foreboding sympathy for consolation. 
 
 She looked ahead wistfully all the way. If 
 she could only see her mother coming, — but 
 she did not, and there was Squire Bean's house, 
 square and white and massive, with great sprawl- 
 ing clumps of white peonies in the front yard. 
 
 She went around to the back door, and raised 
 a feeble clatter with the knocker. Mrs. Squire 
 Bean, who was tall and thin and mild-looking, 
 answered her knock. " The — Squire — sent — 
 for — me " — choked Patience. 
 
 "Oh," said the old lady, "you air the little 
 Mather gal, I guess." 
 
 Patience shook so she could hardly reply. 
 
 "You'd better go right into Ms room," said 
 Mrs. Squire Bean, and Patience followed her. 
 She gave her a little pat when she opened a 
 door on the right. " Don't you be afeard,'' 
 said she; "he won't say nothin' to you. I'll 
 give you a piece of sweet-cake when you come 
 out." 
 
 Thus admonished, Patience entered. " Here's 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. II3 
 
 the little Mather gal," Mrs. Bean remarked ; then 
 the door closed again on her mild old face. 
 
 When Patience first looked at that room, she 
 had a wild impulse to turn and run. A convic- 
 tion flashed through her mind that she could 
 outrun Squire Bean and his wife easily. In fact, 
 the queer aspect of the room was not calculated 
 to dispel her nervous terror. Squire Bean's pe- 
 culiarities showed forth in the arrangement of 
 his room, as well as in other ways. His floor 
 was painted drab, and in the centre were the 
 sun and solar system depicted in yellow. But 
 that six-rayed yellow sun, the size of a large 
 dinner plate, with its group of lesser six-rayed 
 orbs as large as saucers, did not startle Patience 
 as much as the rug beside the Squire's bed. 
 That was made of a brindle cow-skin with — 
 the horns on. The little girl's fascinated gaze 
 rested on these bristling horns, and could not 
 tear itself away. Across the foot of the Squire's 
 bed lay a great iron bar ; that was a housewifely 
 scheme of his own to keep the clothes well down 
 at the foot, but Patience's fertile imagination 
 construed it into a dire weapon of punishment. 
 
114 IN COLONIAL TIMES. 
 
 The Squire was sitting at his old cherry desk. 
 He turned around and looked at Patience sharply 
 from under his shaggy, overhanging brows. 
 
 Then he fumbled in his pocket and brought 
 something out, — it was the sixpence. Then he 
 began talking. Patience could not have told 
 what he said. Her mind was entirely full 
 of what she had to say. Somehow she stam- 
 mered out the story: how she had been afraid 
 to go to Nancy Gookin's, and how she had lost 
 the sixpence her uncle had given her, and how 
 Martha had said she told a fib. Patience trem- 
 bled and gasped out the words, and curtsied 
 once in a while when the Squire said something. 
 
 " Come here," said he, when he had sat for a 
 minute or two taking in the facts of the case. 
 
 To Patience's utter astonishment. Squire Bean 
 was laughing, and holding out the sixpence. 
 
 " Have you got the palm-leaf string ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Patience, curtsying. 
 
 " Well, you may take this home, and put in 
 the palm-leaf string, and use it for a marker 
 in your book, — but don't you spend It again." 
 
 " No, sir." Patience curtsied again. 
 
THE SQUIRE'S SIXPENCE. IIS 
 
 " You did very wrong to spend it, very wrong. 
 Those sixpences are not given to you to spend. 
 But I will overlook it this once." 
 
 The Squire extended the sixpence. Patience 
 took it, with another dip of her little skirt. Then 
 he turned around to his desk. 
 
 Patience waited a few minutes. She did not 
 know whether she was dismissed or not. Finally 
 the Squire begun to add aloud : " Five and five 
 are ten," he said, " ought, and carry the one." 
 
 He was adding a bill. Then Patience stole 
 out softly. Mrs. Squire Bean was waiting in the 
 kitchen. She gave her a great piece of plum- 
 cake and kissed her. 
 
 " He didn't hurt you any, did he .'' " said she. 
 
 " No, ma'am," said Patience, looking with a 
 bewildered smile at the sixpence. 
 
 That night she tied in the palm-leaf strand 
 again, and she put the sixpence in her geogra- 
 phy-book, and she kept it so safely all her life 
 that her great-grandchildren have seen it. 
 
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