_Phoebe._ Weren't you afraid coming through the wood, Aunt Corey?

_Martha_ (_laughing_). Afraid? Why, no, child. Of what should I be
afraid?

_Giles._ I trow there's plenty to be afraid of. How did you get
home so quick? 'Tis a good three miles to Goody Bishop's.

_Martha._ I walked at a good speed.

_Giles._ I thought perhaps you galloped a broomstick.

_Martha._ Nay, goodman, I know not how to manage such a strange
steed.

_Giles._ I thought perhaps one had taught you, inasmuch as you have
naught to say against the gentry that ride the broomstick of a
night.

_Martha._ Fill not the child's head with such folly. How fares your
mother, Ann?

_Ann._ Well, Goodwife Corey.

_Giles._ She lacks sense, or she would have kept her daughter at
home. Out after nightfall, and the woods full of the devil knoweth
what.

_Martha._ Nay, goodman, there be no danger. The scouts are in the