this image. Goodwife Corey, what know you of this?

_Martha._ Your worship, such a weighty matter is beyond my poor
knowledge.

_Hathorne._ Know you whence the child got this image?

_Martha._ Yes, your worship. I myself made it out of a piece of an
old homespun blanket for the child to play with. I stuffed it with
lamb's wool, and sewed some green ravellings on its head for hair. I
made it a coat out of my copperas-colored petticoat, and colored its
lips and cheeks with pokeberries.

_Hathorne._ Did you teach the child to stick in these pins
wherewith to torment folk?

_Martha._ It availeth me naught to say no, your worship.

_Mercy_ (_screams_). Oh, a sharp pain shoot through me when I look
at the image! 'Tis through my arms! Oh!

_Hathorne_ (_examining the doll_). There is a pin in the arms.

_Ann._ I feel sharp pains, like pins, in my face; oh, 'tis
dreadful!

_Hathorne_ (_examining the doll_). There are pins in the face.

_Phoebe_ (_sobbing_). No, no! Those are the pins I stuck in for Aunt
Corey. Don't let them hang me, Aunt Corey.