opened the door of her little log cabin, and, screening her eyes from
the sun with a toilworn hand, looked about in every direction, as
if searching for some one. She was a tall, spare woman, with a firm
mouth, keen blue eyes, and a look of patient endurance in her face,
bred by the stern life of pioneer New England. Far away across the
pasture which sloped southward from the cabin she could see long
meadow grass waving in the breeze, and beyond a thread of blue water
where the Charles River flowed lazily to the sea. Westward there was
also pasture land where sheep were grazing, and in the distance a
glimpse of the thatched roofs of the little village of Cambridge.

Goodwife Pepperell gazed long and earnestly in this direction, and
then, making a trumpet of her hands, sent a call ringing across the
silent fields. "Nancy! Daniel!" she shouted.

She was answered only by the tinkle of sheep bells. A shade of anxiety
clouded the blue eyes as she went round to the back of the cabin and
looked toward the dense forest which bounded her vision on the north.
Stout-hearted though she was, Goodwife Pepperell could never forget
the terrors which lay concealed behind that mysterious rampart of
green. Not only were there wolves and deer and many other wild
creatures hidden in its depths, but it sheltered also the perpetual
menace of the Indians. Toward the east, at some distance from the
cabin, corn-fields stretched to salt meadows, and beyond, across the
bay, she could see the three hills of Boston town.[1]

[Footnote 1: See map.]

As no answering shout greeted her from this direction either, the
Goodwife stepped quickly toward a hollow stump which stood a short