essive of trust in God. At
length she was ordered back to gaol, and dimly understood that she and
others were sentenced to be hanged for witchcraft. Many people now
looked eagerly at Lois, to see if she would weep at this doom. If she
had had strength to cry, it might--it was just possible that it
might--have been considered a plea in her favour, for witches could not
shed tears, but she was too exhausted and dead. All she wanted was to
lie down once more on her prison-bed, out of the reach of men's cries
of abhorrence, and out of shot of their cruel eyes. So they led her
back to prison, speechless and tearless.

But rest gave her back her power of thought and suffering. Was it,
indeed, true that she was to die? She, Lois Barclay, only eighteen, so
well, so young, so full of love and hope as she had been, till but
these little days past! What would they think of it at home--real, dear
home at Barford, in England? There they had loved her; there she had
gone about, singing and rejoicing all the day long in the pleasant
meadows by the Avon side. Oh, why did father and mother die, and leave
her their bidding to come here to this cruel New England shore, where
no one had wanted her, no one had cared for her, and where now they
were going to put her to a shameful death as a witch? And there would
be no one to send kindly messages by to those she should never see
more. Never more! Young Lucy was living, and joyful--probably thinking
of her, and of his declared intention of coming to fetch her home to be
his wife this very spring. Possibly he had forgotten her; no one knew.
A week before, she would have been indignant at her own distrust in
thinking for a minute that he could forget. Now, she doubted all men's
goodness for a time; for those around her were deadly, and cruel, and
relentless.

Then she turned round, and beat herself with angry blows (to speak in
images), for ever doubting her lover. Oh! if she were but with him! Oh!
if she might but be with him! He would not let her die; but would hide
her in his bosom from the wrath of this people, and carry her back to
the old home at Barford. And he might even now be sailing on the wide
blue sea, coming nearer, nearer every moment, and yet be too late after
all.

So the thoughts chased each other through her head all that feverish
night, till she clung almost deliriously to life, and wildly prayed
that she might not die; at least, not just yet, and she so young!

Pastor