Hathorne. There seemeth to me important substance under this froth of tears. (To Phoebe.) Give me thy doll, child.

Phoebe (clutching the doll).  Oh, my doll! my doll!  Oh, Aunt Corey, don’t let them have my doll!

Martha. Peace, dear child!  Thou must not begrudge it.  Their worships be in sore distress just now to play with dolls.

Parris. Give his worship the doll, child.  Hast thou not been taught to respect them in authority?

[Phoebe gives the doll to Hathorne, whimpering. Hathorne, Corwin, and Parris put their heads together over it.

Hathorne (holding up the doll).  There be verily many pins in 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.

Parris. That is sufficient.  She has confessed.

Hathorne. Yes, methinks the child hath confessed whether she would or no.  Goodwife Corey, Phoebe hath now plainly said that she did stick these pins in this image for you.  What have you to say?

Martha (courtesying).  Your worship, the matter is beyond my poor speech.

[Hathorne tosses the doll on the table, Phoebe watching anxiously.

Hathorne. Go to your place, child.

Phoebe. I want my doll.

Parris. Go to thy place as his worship bids thee, and think on the precepts in thy catechism. [Phoebe returns sobbing.

Afflicted Girls. Oh, Goody Corey turns her eyes upon us!  Bid her turn her eyes away!

Ann. Oh, I see a black cat sitting on Goody Corey’s shoulder, and his eyes are like coals.  Now, now, he looks at me when Goody Corey does!  Look away! look away!  Oh, I am blind!  I am blind!  Sparks are coming into my eyes from Goody Corey’s.  Make her turn her eyes away, your worships; make her turn her eyes away!