University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

While these last scenes were in progress at the house of
Holyoke, those of a very different character were in process
of enactment at the house of his father-in-law. Mr. Moxon
had called upon Mr. Pynchon on private business, and had
chosen the early morning hour as best suited to his purpose.
The magistrate was pained to find upon the minister's face
the same wild look of anxiety that he had witnessed upon a
previous occasion, and dreaded another exhibition of a weakness
that was suggestive, at least, of insanity.

“I came to ask you a question,” said the minister, walking
backwards and forwards across the room. “It is an
abstract question, which I beg you to consider without any
relation to its practical bearings, even if the case which
prompts it should occur to you. It is one which, so far as
it goes, interests me very deeply.”

“I am waiting for your question,” said Mr. Pynchon,
after watching the minister for a minute, as he paced to and
fro, and smiling at his own conceit that the gentleman was
treading out the question, as if he thought it was a flooring
of wheat.

“Do you suppose”—and Mr. Moxon paused for a better
phrase—“does not it seem possible to you—that a man who
would give away his child would sell himself?”

“And this is what you wish me to consider as an
abstract question?” said Mr. Pynchon, smiling in spite of
himself.

“You consider the question a foolish one,” said the
minister, pausing and biting his lip with vexation.

“I do,” replied Mr. Pynchon, calmly.

“Mr. Pynchon, you offend me,” said the minister, sharply,
for he was mortified, especially as he had been exercised by
a secret conviction all the time that he was doing a very
silly thing.

“Well, sir,” responded the magistrate, with another smile,
“I am happy to believe that it is the truth I tell you which
is offensive rather than the man who tells it.”

“That remark, sir, is not less offensive than the other,”
replied the minister, with increased bitterness; “and if
these are the kind of words you feel disposed to give me, I
shall take the liberty to bid you a good morning.” Saying
which the gentleman moved towards the door.

“They are the only words which seem proper for the
occasion,” said Mr. Pynchon, very decidedly, “and so long
as you are engaged in the insane pursuit which occupies
you this morning, they are the only kind you will have
from me. I did not ask you to come to me with these
vagaries, and I trust you will not trouble me with them
again.”

So long as Mr. Moxon believed that Mr. Pynchon had no
insight into his motives, he felt strong and indignant, but
his pointed allusion to an insane pursuit, and his stigmatizing
as vagaries the thoughts which moved him so deeply, disarmed
him, and, dropping the latch he had lifted, he walked
back to where Mr. Pynchon was sitting, and settled hesitatingly
and unbidden into a chair.

“Excuse my heat this morning, I beg you, Mr. Pynchon,
for I am not well,” said the minister. “I hardly know
what I have said, but you spoke of vagaries. Will you be
kind enough to tell me what you meant?”

“If you will hear me calmly and patiently, I will tell you
with perfect frankness, and certainly with perfect kindness,”
replied the magistrate.

Mr. Moxon turned his eyes solemnly upwards, and exclaimed,

“Divine grace helping me, I will hear you in a
Christian temper.”

“From certain mysterious statements which you made to
me last summer, on my return from the Bay, and from the
question which you have propounded this morning,” said
Mr. Pynchon, “I have come to the opinion that the Devil
is tempting you with suspicions that he has an agent in the
settlement who is operating to your damage. You know
that Woodcock bears you no good will, and he is very
naturally the individual whom your imagination would
clothe with the malign instrumentality. In other words,
you believe in witchcraft, and are strongly suspicious that
its influences are upon you and your house. I have been
plain with you this morning, and, as you have chosen to
think, severe, because I thought it my duty to you, to
the plantation, and to the interests of religion, to be so.
Were these things generally known, the naturally superstitious
spirit of the people would take fire at once, and hell
itself would hardly be less tolerable than our new town of
Springfield.”

“Do you not believe in witchcraft?” inquired Mr. Moxon,
as Mr. Pynchon closed.

“I do not perceive that your question has the slightest
relevancy to the matter in hand,” replied Mr. Pynchon.
“I do not believe that witchcraft exists here, and, least of
all, do I believe that Woodcock, whom neither you nor I
can buy, would sell himself to the Devil. There are half-a-dozen
of your particular friends, and mine, too, I may say,
in all candor, whom I would suspect of such a disposal of
themselves before I would him.”

“I know you have always had a partiality for him,”
replied the minister, without any attempt to deny the
genuineness of Mr. Pynchon's interpretation of his language
and actions, “and that is one reason why I have
never been frank with you in relation to the subject.”

“Then I am right?”

“You are not far from right.”

“Let me tell you then, my dear sir,” said Mr. Pynchon
solemnly, “that, in giving utterance, or even secret harbor,
to these suspicions, you are assuming a terrible responsibility.
If you can assume it on any but the most reliable
grounds, you are either a very brave or a very heedless
man.”

“I admit what you say,” said the minister, “and if you
could but see what I have seen, and hear what I have
heard, you would confess that I have reliable grounds for
my suspicions.”

“Very well; give me a share in your experience,” replied
the magistrate. “Nothing would gratify me more
than an opportunity to prove to you the fallacy of your
conclusions.”

“Well, you see,” said the minister, hesitatingly, and with
a slight blush, “it's Martha.”

“I thought so,” replied the magistrate, with a smile.

“And why should you think so?”

“Because I know the child. But this makes no difference.
I wish to see her and ascertain whether she has
deceived you.”

“Deceive me! Martha deceive me!” exclaimed Mr.
Moxon convulsively; “my little child? my little simple-hearted
one? Do not pain me, Mr. Pynchon, by suspecting
her of such wickedness, or me of such weakness!”

“I have no disposition to pain you, my dear sir; but
it is possible that a little pain now will save a great deal
in the future. But tell me something of what has taken
place.”

“I could not tell you a tithe of what has taken place.
Besides, I can see how many things which have made a profound
impression on me should only excite your ridicule,
when simply narrated to you. Martha is a child who would

be very easily bewitched, and is by her constitution peculiarly
open to influences from the unseen world. Until
recently, her impressions and revelations have been general,
but they have been very strange. She has never accused
any one, but she shudders when Woodcock walks by her,
and was once thrown into a spasm at hearing his name pronounced.
I have questioned her considerably, but without
arriving at any very satisfactory results. I only know this:
that a strange and unearthly influence is upon her, and
that Woodcock appears to be more or less connected with
it.”

“I think I can get at the matter,” said Mr. Pynchon.
“If you will bring your child here after dinner to-day, I
hope I can show you—I think I can prove to you—that you
are in this whole matter very much mistaken.”

“I should be unjust to you and my child, at least,” replied
the minister, “were I to refuse the trial, and I consent
to your wish very cheerfully;” saying which, Mr. Moxon,
intent on the new aspect of affairs, walked out of the house,
forgetful of all courtesies.

After the minister's departure, Mr. Pynchon sat for a long
hour engaged in reflection. He was sickened with the
prospect which Mr. Moxon's hallucinations had opened to
him, and he was sickened with the man himself. He was
not a thorough sceptic in regard to the wonders of witchcraft,
and few who lived in his day could boast of entire
freedom from that great figment of superstition, but he did
not believe in Martha Moxon's witchcraft at all, and was
vexed that her father, with the great affairs of the Gospel
ministry upon his hands, could tolerate such idle whims for
a moment, and not only tolerate but, as he had reason to
fear, actually implant and foster them.

Having determined upon his plan of procedure, he walked
out, and taking Holyoke's house upon his way in a brief
call, directed his steps to the cabin of John Woodcock.

He found that individual within, singing merrily away at an
old stave while engaged in cobbling an extremely dilapidated
shoe. Mr. Pynchon informed him that he wished to
see him at his house in the early part of the afternoon, at
such a time as he should signal him from a window, and
told him not to be surprised if he found the business a
strange one. Woodcock promised compliance, and when
the magistrate departed fell into a brown study, or more
properly a highly variegated reverie, not unworthy of the
brain of his eccentric daughter.

The first surmise of the old man was that news had been
received from England of the death of some unknown relative,
who had left him his estate. It was very natural,
therefore, that Mr. Pynchon should invite him to his house,
and treat him with the respect due to his altered fortunes.
If this should prove to be the fact what a lady he would
make of Mary! He would give her such a fortune that
Holyoke would be proud to adopt her as a daughter! He
would build a house that should outshine any and every
house in the settlement, and that should be Mary's! And
then he thought of the minister, and ran into a long calculation
of the number of revenges which an unlimited amount
of money would enable him to execute upon that gentleman.
He concluded at last, that if he were to offer to build a
meeting-house for the plantation at a cost of five thousand
pounds, on condition that they would dismiss Mr. Moxon
from further duty, they would accept the offer and jump at
the chance. This he should do without fail. Then, just as
the minister was about to leave the village on his way back
to the Bay, he would go up to him and say, “Here, Moxon”
—yes, he would call him Moxon or George, he did not
know which—“Here, Moxon, take your six pound thirteen
and four; I guess I've had that out of you one way and
another. When you come this way ag'in call, and if I can
help you ag'in by a little slander, I shall be at your sarvice.”

That would be a good cut, and then he would take off his
hat and bow to him a hundred times as he retired.

This florid dream was a long time in running through
Woodcock's mind, and he felt so contented in himself, and
was so enchanted with his possession, that he had forgotten
himself and the world of stern facts around him. When he
awoke he threw his hammer to the other end of his cabin,
where it fairly buried its face in the wall, and exclaimed,
“You miserable old fool!”—After this, he burst into a fit of
boisterous laughing, and then, picking up his hammer, resumed
his work.

After working a while longer, his dreams took another
complexion, and there arose in his mind the possibility that
the visit had something to do with Mary. Perhaps the
child had stolen something, or there was a suspicion that she
had, and Mr. Pynchon wished to get him at his house to
make an inquiry into the matter. Perhaps there was a conspiracy
against the child, with Mr. Moxon at the head of it.
If such should prove to be the case, he should take that gentleman
by the throat, and exclaiming, “ah! ha! old wolf!
I've caught you killing the lambs, have I?” he would shake
him till his face was blue, and kick him out of the house;
and Woodcock almost leaped upon his feet with the excitement
of the imaginary encounter.

But suppose there was merely a suspicion that she had
stolen something. and the circumstances were very much
against her. She would stand in the middle of the room,
crying as if her heart would break, and protesting that she
knew nothing of the matter. The question was just about
to be decided against the girl. He had begun to be convinced
of the guilt of his own child. At this moment,
Mary Pynchon—for he could not think of her as Mary Holyoke
yet—would rush into the room, her face radiant
with joy, and bearing in her hand the missing article.
This she would hold up triumphantly, and placing it on

her father's knee, clasp the child affectionately in her
arms.

When this grand finale was reached, Woodcock was
about to insert the bristle of a waxed-end into the puncture
prepared for it, but, in the excitement of the moment, and
partly in consequence of an uncomfortable mist that gathered
about his eyes, he shot a long inch wide of the mark.
This fact re-awakened him to the consciousness that he had
been dreaming, and kicking, his kit into confusion and the
corner, he bestowed upon himself a variety of contemptuous
epithets, terminating respectively with the words “coot,”
“fool,” and “pewter-head,” and then walked out into the
open air in search of a more healthy mental atmosphere.

But the morning passed very slowly away. He could not
relieve his mind of the apprehension that an event very important
to him was about to occur. His mind ran into
nearly every possible channel but the right one, and as the
hour approached, he had settled down into a belief that a
great evil was impending over him and his child. His
dreams began in brightness and ended in darkness, and
when at last the expected signal appeared, he started for
the house of the magistrate in a state of profound dejection.

Mr. Moxon and his daughter had been at the house of
Mr. Pynchon for half an hour when Woodcock arrived.
They were closeted with him in a small private room, and
when Woodcock entered the house he was shown directly
to that room. The moment that he entered, Martha Moxon
uttered a piercing scream and fell to the floor in a fit, where
she lay for several minutes foaming at the mouth. Mr. Pynchon
was puzzled. He looked first at the child, then at
Woodcock, and then at Mr. Moxon, who was praying with
blanched lips for God's mercy on himself and child.

Woodcock was dumb and motionless with astonishment,
it seemed so unlike a common fit, was induced so manifestly

by his appearance at the door, and was regarded so singularly
by the child's father, and by Mr. Pynchon. Seeing
that they took no measures to relieve the child, he exclaimed
in a tone well charged with reproof, “Why don't you cut
the chick's riggin', and do somethin' for her?”

These words were better than a thousand arguments for
the reassurance of Mr. Pynchon. The exhibition had
shaken him, but Woodcock's rough reproof testified to his
own thorough honesty, and the child's delusion, or intentional
deception. In the meantime, the child remained upon
the floor, with her eyes rolled wildly up at the ceiling, the
froth issuing from her mouth, and presenting a spectacle
equally terrible and disgusting. Woodcock watched the
group a moment longer, and then burst forth with “What
in the Devil's name!—”

He had proceeded thus far, when the child uttered
another scream, and subsided into violent convulsions.

“Mr. Pynchon,” exclaimed the minister, “do not permit
these hellish incantations to proceed.” Then turning to
Woodcock he said, “Man, beware! Remember the terrible
price you pay for this, and repent in time! Why will
you persist in afflicting this innocent child?”

“Me 'flictin' her? Have I teached your young one?”

“Yes, it's him, father,” exclaimed the child, becoming
conscious in a moment, and pointing her finger at Woodcock.
“It's him: don't you see the blue cat on his shoulder,
whispering in his ear? Kitty, kitty, kitty, come, kitty!”
and the little girl smiled wildly, and held out her hand with
an enticing motion to the invisible animal.

“What do you mean, you little slobber-chops?” said
Woodcock, with a glance at each shoulder, and one hand
on his head to see if that were in its place. Then, looking
at her a moment longer he said, “She's makin' it, Square,
as sure as guns. I ain't a 'pothecary, but if spankin'
ain't good for that kind, then I wouldn't try it, that's all.”

Mr. Pynchon could not restrain a smile, and a pleasantly
inquisitive glance at the minister. That gentleman stood
looking at his child with a stern and solemn expression of
countenance, but deigned no reply to Woodcock's accusation.

“Woodcock, will you leave the room for a few minutes?”
said Mr. Pynchon; and, as soon as he had retired, he addressed
the same request to the minister. Mr. Moxon paused,
as if he would ask a question, but Mr. Pynchon checked
him with a motion of the hand, and he hesitatingly complied.
When both had gone, and the door was closed, he lifted the
little girl, who had gradually recovered from her strange
fit, to his knee, and asked her what made her act as she had
done.

“He made me,” replied the girl, pointing at the door, and
meaning Woodcock.

“How did he make you?” inquired Mr. Pynchon.

“He did it with the blue cat,” replied the child.

“The blue cat? He has no blue cat, and you have not
seen any.”

“Well, I've seen one at my brick house, and it had red
rings round its eyes, and it had—oh! ever so many little
red kittens, every one of them made out of bricks—”

“Stop!” said Mr. Pynchon, authoritatively. “Let me hear
no more of that nonsense.”

The child looked tremblingly into his eyes, and was silent.
“Now,” said he, “Martha, I am going to call John Woodcock
into the room again, and your father is not coming.
Do you see that riding stick up there? Now remember
that if you fall down in a fit again, or scream, or talk about
blue cats, I will whip your shoulders so that you shall have
something to scream about.” He then called Woodcock,
who came in expecting another fit; but, on approaching
the child, and finding that she was perfectly calm, he sat
down opposite to her, and asked her to come and sit with him.

“Go!” said Mr. Pynchon, placing her upon the floor.

She walked immediately to Woodcock, and he lifted her
to his lap. Mr. Moxon had overheard the movements that
were in progress, and entered the room unbidden, at the
moment when Martha, at Mr. Pynchon's command, was
engaged in kissing Woodcock's rough cheek. It would be
hard to tell whether it were the flush of anger, or shame,
or fear, that burned upon Mr. Moxon's face, as he saw his
child in what seemed to him a foul and unnatural act.
Mr. Pynchon pointed to the child in triumph, and exclaimed,
“Your daughter is no more bewitched than I
am.”

“Martha! get down and come to me,” exclaimed the
minister shudderingly.

In any other mood, Woodcock would have given the
minister bitter language, but Mr. Pynchon had used a word
which had opened to him the secret of the strange scene.
Slowly he comprehended the accusation which had been
made against him, and it smote him dumb. Meanwhile
Mr. Moxon had folded Martha to his breast, and was bending
tenderly over her, and Mr. Pynchon was turning from
one to the other of his companions, uncertain what course
to pursue with them. He was relieved, at last, by the
minister, who, with a look full of angry reproof, said, “How
do you decide so readily that the child is not bewitched?
Perhaps you can tell what enchantments were used to get
this trembling child into that man's arms.”

Mr. Pynchon heaved a sigh that was half pity and half
disgust, and evidently restrained himself from using such
language to the infatuated father, in the presence of Woodcock,
as he was powerfully moved to use. As the minister
bent over his child she raised her head and whispered in
his ear. She evidently made a request to return home, as
he rose with her in his arms, and very emphatically saying
“then you shall go home,” passed out of the house, and

left Mr. Pynchon and Woodcock looking silently into one
another's faces.

The magistrate and his surprised companion preserved
their position and their silence for a long minute after Mr.
Moxon's withdrawal, as if they had made a private agreement
not to speak until he was beyond a hearing distance.
Woodcock was in distress. His mind, in a brief time, had
ranged through the field of consequences that would naturally
be opened by the singular suspicion which the
minister had fastened upon him, and he could not avoid the
conclusion that that field was springing thickly with trials
and sorrows.

“Where do you 'xpect this thing is goin' to fetch up?”
said Woodcock, at last, folding his arms upon his knees,
and looking with renewed earnestness into Mr. Pynchon's
face.

“It seems to me,” replied the magistrate, thoughtfully,
“that he must necessarily abandon suspicions that are
proved to be so groundless.”

“Well, Square,” said Woodcock, “I don't pretend to
be any smarter than other folks, but I know Mr. Moxon
better'n that. Guessin' is a great deal stronger'n knowin'
with him. Argyments don't stand no more chance with his
notions than a hen's egg does with a weasel. He'd suck the
yelks right out on 'em, and hide the shells in his coat tails,
and swear he hadn't seen 'em. No, sir,—there's goin' to be
a fuss, and I've got to catch it. He's bewitched the young
one, and she's bewitched him—all the bewitchin' there is—
and they think it's me. He's been peaceable a good deal
longer'n I s'posed he would, but he's on the track, and he'll
foller it, and yelp till all the hounds in the settlement jine
him.”

“It is too small an affair for Mr. Moxon to pursue, I am
sure,” said Mr. Pynchon, shaking his head as if he were not
entirely sure, after all.

“What did he start it for, then?” said Woodcock. “It
was a good deal smaller then than 'tis now. I don't know
jest what you think of his preachin', Square, but I've heerd
him talk half a day on littler things'n that, and I b'lieve he
likes such things better'n anything else. I think a good
deal of religion, if you can only get hold of the right sort,
but his'n ain't that sort by a long chalk. I never see a
minister stickin' to little things, such as didn't come to any
given sum, any way, but what he had an onreasonable religion,
and I never see one that had an onreasonable religion
that didn't make a jackass of himself—so! there!” And
Woodcock slapped his knee spitefully, rose to his feet, and
walked across the room as if he had said something which
he expected to be reproved for.

Mr. Pynchon knew that Woodcock had been sufficiently
provoked, and so made no comment on his remarks about
the minister, but asked him what course he supposed that
individual would pursue.

“I think he'll shoot low, and save his waddin', till you go
to the Bay ag'in, and then he'll let me have it jest back o'
the fore-shoulder, as he did t'other time. You're a little
too much for him, Square, but you've got him mad, and
I've got to stand the blowin' for both on us. Not that I
care any great shakes about it on my own account, 'cause
I'm used to't.”

“Woodcock,” said Mr. Pynchon cordially, “you gratify
me very much by commanding your temper so well this
morning.”

“Now, Square, stop that, or you'll get me mad,” said
Woodcock sharply, and reddening in an instant. “'Taint
no compliment to tell me my pluck's gone, and if you want
to raise the devil in me right straight off, all you've got to
do is to stroke my back and call me a good feller.”

“I may think what I choose about you, I suppose,” said
Mr. Pynchon smiling, “provided I say nothing about it.”

“It'll be better for the minister if you keep mum, for if
I r'ally thought you s'posed I was layin' low 'cause I was
gettin' good, I'd make pumice of him 'fore he was an hour
older.”

“What serious objection have you to being called good?”
inquired Mr. Pynchon curiously.

“I ain't good,” replied Woodcock decidedly. “I'm bad,
and gettin' worse, and I don't want to have you think I'm
gettin' any better. I sh'd be ashamed to grow good on
sech fodder as I've had in this plantation. It's mighty poor
stock that'll do it, and I don't belong to the breed.”

“We all notice that you are changed in your temper,”
said Mr. Pynchon, “and I see no way for you to do but to
let us call it for better or worse, as it pleases us.”

“Do you r'ally s'pose the folks round here think I'm
gettin' good?” inquired Woodcock, with an air not unlike
that of injured innocence.

“With the exception of Mr. Moxon, I presume they do.”

“Then they're a sweet set of fools—that's all. Now I'll
tell you, Square, jest how 'tis, and what it all started from.
When I was layin' by, after that overhaulin' the minister
give me, last Spring, I was walkin' in the woods, thinkin'
about that matters and things, worryin' about that gal of
mine, and wonderin' how I was goin' to fetch round, when
out shot a hen patridge with one wing lopped clean down
to the ground; and she kept hoppin' and limpin' ahead on
me, and lettin' me almost get up to her till I'd chased her
a good long stretch, when all at once, jest as I was hittin'
her a rap, she up and off as sound as a nut and straight as
a string. Then I mistrusted the critter, and turned round
and went back to where she started out. I've got a tol'able
good eye, and pretty quick I saw a little young patridge,
jest hid under a leaf, and standin' as still as a mouse. Well,
Squire, I sot right down on a stone, and went to thinkin' to
see if I couldn't learn somethin' from the old bird. Says I,

`Woodcock, you ain't 'xactly a hen patridge, but you're kind
o' wild, and you have got a wild young one. Now when
the Square gets back, you try to get into the plantation
ag'in, and if you do, get your young one under a leaf, and
then limp and let your wing lop down, and make 'em
think you're as good as bagged, till they forget all about
the young one.' Well, you know I got the young one
under just the leaf I wanted to, and I've kept my wing
down, and it's done the work, too, till now; but, Lord! I
ain't any more a tame patridge than I be a spavined salmon.”

At this characteristic conclusion of Woodcock's exposition
of his policy and motives, Mr. Pynchon laughed heartily,
and, rising to his feet, said, “Well, John, you placed the
young one still further under the leaf last night, and I am
glad to see that you keep the wing down still.”

“What do you s'pose Holyoke'll do with that gal of
mine?” inquired Woodcock, with an affected carelessness
of manner.

“I imagine that he has come to no conclusion yet—he
has hardly had time,” replied the magistrate.

“Well, I reckon he'll do pretty much as his wife says, and
I know she likes her. Don't you think she's a goin' to 'arn
her livin'?”

“She appears to be bright and industrious.”

“Now, don't you s'pose if she didn't see the old one
round she'd get tame, and folks would forget where she
was hatched?” and Woodcock put on a very transparent
look of unconcern, and snapped his finger with an ease that
was very uneasy.

“Do you mean to ask whether for the sake of your
daughter you had better leave the plantation?”

“That's jest it, Square,” replied Woodcock. “You see I
don't care anything about this witchcraft business myself,
only, if I hadn't a young one to look after, it wouldn't be
safe for a man to p'int his finger to me and say, `broom

sticks' more'n a dozen times. He'd lay down kind o' careless,
and I should stomp on him. But the gal makes the
trouble. You see, I don't want to be a drawback on her,
and I've been thinkin' that p'r'aps I'd better say, that if you
should find me gone some time, and I shouldn't come back,
and you didn't know where I'd gone to, I want to have
what little land I've planted here to go to Mary when she
gets old enough, and help support her till she does.”

Mr. Pynchon read in Woodcock's tone and manner the
nature of the conclusion to which he had arrived. He saw
that he believed that Mr. Moxon would pursue his persecutions
further, and that it was only his consideration for his
child that kept him from visiting the minister with savage
vengeance; and, while he disliked to part with the man, it
seemed evident that it was for the peace of the plantation
and the good of all concerned, for him to quietly withdraw.

He saw that the difference between him and Mr. Moxon
had become utterly irreconcilable, and that the introduction
of a new element of discord, which from its nature would
be likely to involve the welfare of the settlement, would
serve to extend a feud which was yet within limits. So he
told Woodcock that he would bear his request in mind, and
see to its execution whenever the supposed emergency
should occur, but expressed the hope that he would take no
hasty action.

Woodcock took his leave of the magistrate, and walked
slowly away, with his head bent down reflectively, and his
hands grasping each other behind his back. He was thinking
of a project he had formed months before—a project
based on the supposition of such a juncture in his affairs as
he had already reached. He had for several months thought
it probable that, considering Mr. Moxon's hatred of him, a
time would come when, to save the reputation of his child,
or to keep her free from unpleasant or unpopular associations,
it would be necessary for him to retire from the settlement,

and he had laid all his plans for that event. He had
not a doubt that if he should remain, the fact that he had
been accused of being a wizard would, in some manner,
become known, while, if he should retire, Mr. Moxon would
have parental affection sufficient to induce him to keep his
secret. He had arrived opposite to the house of Holyoke,
when, upon raising his eyes, he saw his daughter smiling at
the window. He could not resist the temptation to enter
the house, where he was greeted very cordially by Holyoke
and his wife, both of whom detected the cloud upon his
features, and made sympathetic allusion to it.

“Well, I BE troubled,” said Woodcock emphatically, “but
I don't make a p'int of goin' round to tell on't; leastways,
I wouldn't fetch my troubles here.”

“I do not know of a better place,” said Mary Holyoke
smilingly, “and you certainly ought to carry them somewhere.”

“I never do,” replied Woodcock.

“And what do you do with them?”

“Let 'em mull.”

“And here you have given me your companion, your
comfort, your own child!” exclaimed the lady, the tears
springing to her eyes.

“If you want to do me any good, look after her. I'll
take care o' myself. My troubles are nothin' to anybody,
and, if she comes out right, they aint anything to me.”

“I will certainly do the best I can with her,” said Mary,
“and she seems well disposed to do everything she can for
me.”

“Can she pay her way?” inquired Woodcock earnestly,
and as if the question contained the very meat of the
matter.

The reply to this question was interrupted at the commencement
by a rap at the door, and the entrance of Mr.
George Moxon.