he thus tampered with her own simplicity, the witch's phantom
might well hope to win her.

No sooner did Polly hear her father's gouty footsteps approaching the
parlor door, accompanied with the stiff clatter of Feathertop's
high-heeled shoes, than she seated herself bolt upright and innocently
began warbling a song.

"Polly! Daughter Polly!" cried the old merchant. "Come hither, child."

Master Gookin's aspect, as he opened the door, was doubtful and
troubled.

"This gentleman," continued he, presenting the stranger, "is the
chevalier Feathertop--nay, I beg his pardon, My Lord Feathertop--who
hath brought me a token of remembrance from an ancient friend of mine.
Pay your duty to His Lordship, child, and honor him as his quality
deserves."

After these few words of introduction the worshipful magistrate
immediately quitted the room. But even in that brief moment, had the
fair Polly glanced aside at her father instead of devoting herself
wholly to the brilliant guest, she might have taken warning of some
mischief nigh at hand. The old man was nervous, fidgety and very pale.
Purposing a smile of courtesy, he had deformed his face with a sort of
galvanic grin which, when Feathertop's back was turned, he exchanged
for a scowl, at the same time shaking his fist and stamping his gouty
foot--an incivility which brought its retribution along with it. The
truth appears to have been that Mother Rigby's word of introduction,
whatever it might be, had operated far more on the rich merchant's
fears than on his good-will. Moreover, being a man of wonderfully acute
observation, he had noticed that the painted figures on the bowl of
Feathertop's pipe were in motion. Looking more closely, he became
convinced that these figures were a party of little demons, each duly
provided with horns and a tail, and dancing hand in hand with gestures
of diabolical merriment round the circumference of the pipe-bowl. As if
to confirm his suspicions, while Master Gookin ushered his guest along
a dusky passage from his private room to the parlor, the star on
Feathertop's breast had scintillated actual flames, and threw a
flickering gleam upon the wall, the ceiling and the door.

With such sinister prognostics manifesting themselves on all hands, it
is not to be marveled at that the merchant should have felt that he was
committing his daughter to a very questionable acquaintance. He cursed
in his secret soul the insinuating elegance of Feathertop's