_Phoebe._ Yes; she is passing our gate. Oh, Nancy, what shall we
do? what shall we do?

_Nancy._ I would that I had my fingers in old man Hathorne's fine
wig. I would yank it off for him, and fling it to the pigs.
A-sending master and mistress to jail, and they no more witches than
I be!

_Phoebe._ Oh, Nancy, be we witches? They have not sent us to jail.

_Nancy._ I know not what we be. My old head will not hold it all.
It is time they came home. There is not a crumb of sweet-cake in the
house, and the stopple is so tight in the cider-barrel that I cannot
stir it a peg. [_Weeps._

_Phoebe._ Nancy, did they send Aunt Corey and Uncle Corey to jail
because I stuck the pins in my doll?

_Nancy._ I know not. I tell ye my old head spins round like a
flax-wheel; when I put my finger on one spoke 'tis another one.
These things be too much for a poor old woman like me. It takes
folks like their worships the magistrates and Minister Parris to
deal with black men and witches, and keep their wits in no need of
physic.

_Phoebe._ Oh, Nancy, I know what I will do! Oh, 'tis well I
snatched my doll off the meeting-house table that day after the
trial, and ran home with it under my apron! (_Runs to the settle,
takes up the doll, which is lying there, and kisses it._) Here is