ond, and then a third,
"your master will quickly knock your child in the head."

This was the comfort I had from them, miserable comforters are ye all,
as he said. Thus nine days I sat upon my knees, with my babe in my lap,
till my flesh was raw again; my child being even ready to depart this
sorrowful world, they bade me carry it out to another wigwam (I suppose
because they would not be troubled with such spectacles) whither I went
with a very heavy heart, and down I sat with the picture of death in my
lap. About two hours in the night, my sweet babe like a lamb departed
this life on Feb. 18, 1675. It being about six years, and five months
old. It was nine days from the first wounding, in this miserable
condition, without any refreshing of one nature or other, except a
little cold water. I cannot but take notice how at another time I could
not bear to be in the room where any dead person was, but now the case
is changed; I must and could lie down by my dead babe, side by side all
the night after. I have thought since of the wonderful goodness of
God to me in preserving me in the use of my reason and senses in that
distressed time, that I did not use wicked and violent means to end my
own miserable life. In the morning, when they understood that my child
was dead they sent for me home to my master's wigwam (by my master in
this writing, must be understood Quinnapin, who was a Sagamore, and
married King Philip's wife's sister; not that he first took me, but I
was sold to him by another Narragansett Indian, who took me when first I
came out of the garrison). I went to take up my dead child in my arms to
carry it with me, but they bid me let it alone; there was no resisting,
but go I must and leave it. When I had been at my master's wigwam, I
took the first opportunity I could get to go look after my dead child.
When I came I asked them what they had done with it; then they told me
it was upon the hill. Then they went and showed me where it was, where I
saw the ground was newly digged, and there they told me they had buried
it. There I left that child in the wilderness, and must commit it, and
myself also in this wilderness condition, to Him who is above all. God
having taken away this dear child, I went to see my daughter Mary, who
was at this same Indian town, at a wigwam not very far off, though we
had little liberty or opportunity to see one another. She was about
ten years old, and taken from the door at first by a Pr