It was August, 1706, and the sultry anniversary of a fast
wforgotten witchcraft. Corn stood high in the field, and in
the orchard where witches had grounded their sticks when
Parris owned the place, the apples were already round in
the tree. Goldenrod showed in the meadows and crickets
chirped busily.

Within the dusk of the meetinghouse on this bright
day, the congregation sat in the dead hush of complete at-
tention. Not the smallest child wriggled now, and all eyes
turned to the woman who, clad in white cap, kerchief and
long-gown of seemly sad-colored stuff, had risen at her
place. In the pulpit the Reverend Joseph Green prepared
to read her "confession."

The woman was still young; though more than a dec-
ade ago she had been one of the most notorious figures
in Massachusetts, she was not now more than six-and-
twenty. But she looked older; life had been hard, and the
younger Ann Putnam, daughter of a sickly, high-strung
mother, had never been strong at best.

She stood here today a suppliant for the right hand
of fellowship of her church. There were churches -- the
Brattle Church in Boston for instance -- where the old
Puritan custom of requiring an applicant to make public

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