"I am constrained to declare, as the result of as thorough a scrutiny as I could institute, my belief that this dreadful transaction was introduced and driven on by wicked perjury and wilful malice."

Upham's Lecture ox Salem Witchcraft.

"Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts?"

Lear.

There seems sometimes to be an element of evil in the heart of a child, that would almost persuade us to believe in original sin. In the breast of those who have been favorably born and kindly nurtured, it may sleep forever; but, when the conscience has been soiled in early childhood, it awakes the appetite for sin, and the restraint that comes afterwards curbs without subduing the disposition to evil.

It is true that poor Phoebe had felt a strong affection for her grandmother; and, without all other moral restraint, it was the only point in which her heart could be touched. The vagrant life she had led had also had its influence:

she could not always be insensible to the beauty of the heaven that had so often canopied her sleep, or the grandeur of the ocean where she had passed whole days playing with the waves. She rebelled against the restraint that every feminine occupation imposed on this wild liberty. She quailed, indeed, before Dinah's more resolute spirit; but Edith's gentleness had failed to touch her heart; and she knew that her forced obedience to Dinah was only the result of Edith's authority.

When the child appeared, Edith held out her hand with her own grave, sweet smile; but, the moment the child saw her, she began again to act her part, and to throw her body and limbs into violent contortions. Edith was not alarmed: she saw it was feigned; and, drawing her to her knees, she held both her little hands tightly clasped in hers. Phoebe became instantly calm; but this was a part of the system of deception,—that, as soon as the accused touched the afflicted, they should be calmed and healed.

Edith looked in her face, and said, very kindly, "Tell me, my poor child, who has persuaded you to do this wicked thing,—to accuse me of this horrible crime? tell me truly. I shall not be angry with you, I shall not punish you, if you tell me the truth. Who first spoke to you about it? What have they promised you for bringing this trouble on me?"

The child, unmoved, said, "You yourself made me do it."

"I! O, my poor Phoebe, how can you be so wicked as to tell this dreadful lie? Do you not know that God sees you and hears you, and that he will punish you for it? I may die: you may cause my death; but you will live to repent; and, O, how sorry you will be in after years, when you think how much I loved you, and you have caused my death! But, my poor Phoebe, you know not what you do; you know not what death is."

"My grandmother died," said the child.

"Ah, yes; but she died quietly in her bed, and you were sleeping near; and when I took you in my arms to look at her, you saw only her peaceful countenance. But I shall not die thus: I shall be dragged before angry men, and, with irons on my hands and ankles, I shall be lifted to the scaffold, and there, before hundreds of angry faces turned towards me, I shall die alone! not peacefully, as your grandmother did, when with my own hands I closed her eyes, but horribly, in pain and agony! and you will have done this,—you that I have loved so"—

Phoebe became very red, and the tears came to her eyes.

Edith thought she had touched the child's heart, and continued: "I knew you could not be so wicked, so young and looking so innocent. No, my child; you love me, and you will unsay all you have said, and we will go home again together."

The child answered, with much violence, "No, no, never! you pricked me with pins, and you tormented me."

"O, monstrous!" said Edith; "if I could believe in devils, I should believe you were now possessed. O, it is not natural! so young, and with a woman's nature! You do not love me, then. I have punished you when you have done wrong, and you have not forgiven me: you wish to be revenged. You do not answer. Phoebe! tell me: are you angry that I punished you? God knows it pained me to do so. But your poor grandmother gave you to me that I might try to make you a good child; and if I had not punished you when you did wrong, you would have grown up a wicked woman. God grant you may not be so now! you are already revenged."

Phoebe said, very sullenly, "You punished me twice."

"Good God! and is it for that you have brought on me this terrible evil? Can such revenge dwell in so young a heart?"

Edith walked several times across the room, trying to calm her agitated nerves. The child stood with an expression of obstinate determination in her whole manner.

At length Edith went to her, and took her, as she had often done at home, in her arms.

"My dear Phoebe, do you remember the day when your grandmother died? I was there by her bedside; and you, a poor, deserted child, were crying bitterly. I took you home to my house. Like myself, you were an orphan; and I prayed to the orphan's Father that from me your little heart might never know a pang of sorrow. You fell asleep in my arms; and since then I have ever loved you almost as though I were indeed your mother, and you were my own child. And you, Phoebe, you have loved me, have you not?"

The child was silent.

"Do you remember the fever you had soon after? when you were restless in your bed, and I took you in my arms, and all night my bosom was your pillow, and I watched you many nights, and thought not of sleep or fatigue when I held your little hand, burning with fever, in my own all night? Ah! you loved me then; you will love me again, and—"

"I never loved you," said the child; "I do not love you now."

Edith put her quickly from her arms, and turning to the man who was present, "Take her away," she said; "take the poor child away. O, my God! is it for this I have lavished on her the tenderness of my heart! I warmed her in my bosom, and she has stung me to the quick. O, had I been less indulgent, I might have subdued her stubborn nature. Of what avail has been a life of self-denial, of benevolence? Of what avail that I have striven to enlighten my own mind and to do good to others? In one moment, by that child of my own cherishing, but the creature of my own bounty, I am suspected of a horrible, contemptible crime; humiliated to the very dust. O, my Father! it is too much." She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

The person who had witnessed the scene with the child was the same elder I have mentioned as possessing much tenderness of heart, but too weak a head to listen to its dictates when opposed to the influence of others. He had been much affected by her appeal to the child, and came back to urge her, if she had any friends to espouse her cause, to send for them. He said the fanaticism was increasing; that the prisons in many villages were filled with the accused; that the hearts of the people were hardened against them; and that her own cause had been much injured by the confession of the old woman: and he ended by entreating her to confess also, and save her life.

To the last proposal, Edith did not answer. She said she had already written to the only friend on whom she could rely, and that Paul had gone himself with her letter. Her cause, she said, seemed already lost, and all she wished at present was, that Dinah might be permitted to visit her, and that she might be left alone.

When Edith was alone, she felt the depression that succeeds to great excitement. She looked back on her life with that sick and heart-broken feeling that the young experience after severe disappointments. She was too young to die; and, though her life had been comparatively blameless, the excess of feeling she had lavished on a few idols seemed now to her almost like a crime. She had forgotten, she thought, that her duties had been plain, and simple, and humble, lying all about her path like unnoticed flowers, while she had longed for something more exciting to fill her heart.

It is easy for the accused to believe themselves guilty. She trembled when she thought how many, not weaker than herself, when suspected and deserted by friends, had yielded to their fears, and even fancied themselves guilty of crimes which they abhorred; and she mentally prayed, "Ah, my Father, save me from myself." Then came the thought of Seymore, of his grief, his desolation! "Ah, who will understand him," she said; "who will comfort him when I am gone? But will he remember me?" thought she; "will he think of me in 'widowhood of heart?'"

Who would die and be wholly forgotten? We long intensely to live in the hearts that love us now. We would not pass away "like the summer-dried fountain," forgotten when its sound has ceased. We would have our lowly grave visited by holy, twilight thoughts, and our image return at the hour of prayer. How few are thus remembered! Now Edith thought of her father, and all the yearning of her heart, which her love for Seymore had stifled, came back, and torrents of tears flowed as she recalled her happy childhood.

They were checked by the entrance of Dinah. She brought comfort with her, and a cheerful countenance, for she did not know the result of Edith's conversation with the child, and she was full of hope that Phoebe would retract all she had said.

Edith could not bear to undeceive her poor friend, and smiled, and thanked her as she arranged a nice, clean bed, placed the books she had brought within her reach, and pressed her to eat of the delicacies she had prepared. She arranged the little repast with all the neatness of home, and gave to the gloomy apartment an air of comfort; and Edith smiled again, and felt lightened of half her load of despondency, by the presence of this faithful guardian.