Corwin. How looked the book?

Mercy. ’Twas black, your worship, with blood-red clasps.

Corwin. Read you the names in it?

Mercy. I strove to, your worship, but I got not through the C’s; there were too many of them.

Hathorne. Let the serving-woman, Nancy Fox, come hither.

[Nancy Fox makes her way to the front.

Hathorne. Nancy, I have heard that your mistress afflicts you.

Nancy. That she doth.

Hathorne. In what manner?

Nancy. She sendeth me to bed at first candlelight as though I were a babe; she maketh me to wear a woollen petticoat in winter-time, though I was not brought up to’t; and she will never let me drink more than one mug of cider at a sitting, and I nigh eighty, and needing on’t to warm my bones.

Corwin. Hath she ever afflicted you?  Your replies be not to the point, woman.

Nancy. Your worship, she hath never had any respect for my understanding, and that hath greatly afflicted me.

Hathorne. Hath she ever shown you a book to sign?

Nancy. Verily she hath; and when I would not, hath afflicted me with sore pains in all my bones, so I cried out, on getting up, when I had set awhile.

Hathorne. Hath your mistress a familiar?

Nancy. Hey?

Hathorne. Have you ever seen any strange thing with her?

Nancy. She hath a yellow bird which sits on her cap when she churns.

Hathorne. What else have you seen with her?

Nancy. A thing like a cat, only it went on two legs.  It clawed up the chimbly, and the soot fell down, and Goody Corey set me to sweeping on’t up on the Lord’s day.

Giles. Out upon ye, ye lying old jade!

Hathorne. Silence!  Nancy, you may go to your place.  Phoebe Morse, come hither.

[Phoebe Morse approaches with her apron over her face, sobbing.  She has her doll under her arm.

Hathorne. Cease weeping, child.  Tell me how your aunt Corey treats you.  Hath she ever taught you otherwise than you have learned in your catechism?

Phoebe (weeping).  I don’t know.  Oh, Aunt Corey, I didn’t mean to!  I took the pins out of my doll, I did.  Don’t whip me for it.

Hathorne. What doll?  What mean you, child?

Phoebe. I don’t know.  I didn’t stick them in so very deep, Aunt Corey!  Don’t let them hang me for it!

Hathorne. Did your aunt Corey teach you to stick pins into your doll to torment folk?

Phoebe (sobbing convulsively).  I don’t know!  I don’t know!  Oh, Aunt Corey, don’t let them hang me!  Olive, you won’t let them!  Oh! oh!

Corwin. Methinks ’twere as well to make an end of this.