Mr. Fagotter being thus coercively excommunicated, went to and fro among the cottages, and in his roaming came to Peter Foddie's house, the door of which being open he entered. Foddie himself, the most patient of the human race, was not in—he, though a rigid Antiburgher, was led by curiosity to the idolatrous baptism, that he might obtain some insight into the devices of the Scarlet Madam, and learn how to fortify himself to eschew her wiles and devices; but his wife, whose occasional exploits I have already delicately alluded to, was sitting by the fire-side, somewhat dishevelled in her wits, vehemently sobbing and shedding many tears, on account of the abomination of the baptism.

On seeing the worthy Saint enter, she addressed him in the most pathetic terms concerning the service of Satan that was then performing, and the affliction of her poor sinful soul for the slack fortitude of her husband, who had not the strength wherewithal to withstand the allurements of the Papistical Dalilah.

Mr. Fagotter, moved at the sight of her loneliness, shut the door behind him, and taking a seat beside her, entered into a consolatory discourse concerning the sin that doth most easily beset us. In this pleasant dalliance of the spirit, they had continued some time, when the whole congregation assembled at the baptism, were terrified by the loudest and shrillest shrieks of woe and desperation. They were heard approaching—every one rose—every dog barked, and the doors and windows were instantly replete with faces.