As the opening door revealed that unexpected scene, Lady Phipps started forward with a smothered exclamation, half surprise, half horror. Then she as suddenly drew back, leaned against the wall for support, and looked full in her husband's face, outwardly still and calm from the very agitation of her feelings.

Sir William raised his eyes and met the fixed gaze of his wife. His perplexed glance wandered to the bending form clasped to his bosom, the white hands folded upon his shoulder, and the head, with its weight of dimly revealed hair, lying against his heart. With a quick motion of his hand he pushed Barbara Stafford away, and stood upright, though a tremor, for which he could not account, ran through his whole frame. He was, in truth, strangely agitated, and the sudden pallor which changed his face, so little accustomed to any exhibition of emotion, would have sent a thrill of doubt to the most faithful and trusting heart.

Norman Lovel was standing by Elizabeth, and both gazed from one to the other with a sort of chilled astonishment, which left them no power to break the painful spell of the moment as observers of mature years and worldly experience would have been able to do.

Barbara Stafford sank slowly back as Sir William repulsed her in his astonishment; shrinking into herself like a flower drooping upon its stalk, her arms falling idly to her side, and her eyes fastened upon his face with a magnetic power which forced him to return her glance, in spite of his strong will.

That instant of bewilderment had seemed like an eternity to the little group. Lady Phipps was first to break the spell. Mastering the tremor which took away her strength, she stepped towards her husband, and said, in a courteous, but somewhat constrained manner—

"I believe we have all been making confusion in this darkness; Sir William has claimed a privilege scarcely his own, and my eyes were so blinded by the gloom that I supposed him a stranger."

Those jesting words in a measure dispelled the painful embarrassment of the moment.

Sir William moved towards his wife with the grave dignity which characterized him, and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"At least I must not lose my greeting now," he said, "and our fair guest, I trust, will pardon my unintentional rudeness."

Barbara Stafford did not reply, and, without looking again at that pale face, the governor passed into the house, holding his wife's hand in his own. When they had disappeared from view, and before either of the young persons, who were looking at her in wonder, could move, the wretched lady sank back without a sound, or even a motion of her arms to break her fall, and lay prostrate upon the porch, her loosened hair sweeping the garments of Elizabeth Parris as she fell. The girl shrunk away, as if those shining tresses had been viper coils, and made no movement to assist her.

"She is dead!" exclaimed Norman, springing forward to raise the motionless form; "call help, Elizabeth."

"Don't touch her!" expostulated the girl, seizing his arm; "I would rather see you pick up a snake—I will call the domestics."

"For shame, Bess!" returned Norman, with indignation; "how can you be so cruel?"

"You shall not touch her, I say you shall not!" she repeated, with unwonted vehemence; "I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot."

"Get me some water, and be silent!" he said, sternly, shaking off her hand and raising the prostrate form.

Elizabeth Parris looked on for a moment in silence, while he swept back the hair from that white face, and threw off the scarf which covered her head; then, before he could repeat his request, she rushed into the house, and closed the door violently behind her.

Norman uttered an exclamation of passionate reproach, and raised Barbara in his arms. He placed her on a bench at the end of the porch, where the roses and honeysuckles hung down in luxuriant profusion. He tore off the blossoms with reckless haste, and scattered the dew over her forehead, raising her head upon his shoulder again with the fondness of a brother, while the touch of those rich masses of hair sent a thrill to his heart almost painful from its intensity.

Many moments elapsed ere Barbara Stafford revived. She opened her eyes at length, and looked around in the starlit gloom.

"Am I dreaming?" she whispered; "what has happened?—where am I now?"

"You fainted, Madam," said Norman, soothingly; "you have not been well since your shipwreck, I think."

"Fainted—did I—and wherefore? Who was here? I feel as if I had been in a dream—that man—surely I was in his arms—he kissed my forehead—my lips—"

"Sir William mistook you in the darkness for Lady Phipps," said Norman, in explanation.

"I remember, and they looked so strangely at me—all of them—that young girl—"

"You must excuse Elizabeth, Madam; she is a mere child—capricious and spoiled."

"Where are they all? Why did they leave me here alone with you? Could they not deign me even a moment's pity and assistance?"

"Sir William and Lady Phipps knew nothing of your illness—they had gone into the house—are you well enough now to follow them?"

"Not yet—not yet. I will not intrude upon them—I am better here."

"I will bring you some water—"

"Nothing—only let me be quiet for a few moments, and I shall be well. These flowers are oppressive—help me away."

He supported her to a seat at a little distance, and resumed his position by her side. Barbara sat leaning her forehead upon her hand, lost in thought, and shivering slightly, as if with cold.

"The night air is chill," said Norman; "I will get your cloak."

He took up the rich mantle and folded it about her; she offered no resistance, looking down at him as he bent forward, and smiling with her patient, resigned smile, in sign of thankfulness for his care.

"Are you better now?" he asked, inexpressibly moved by the beautiful resignation of her look.

"Much better. You are very kind to me—very, I have always something new to thank you for."

"I wish it were indeed in my power to render you any service."

"Ah, you are young, and it is great happiness for the young to feel that they can be of service to those around them! But I have no claim upon your kindness. I am a stranger to you and all about you."

"A stranger—oh, lady, how can you say this? I could never feel that you were indeed a stranger—there are persons with whom one, at the first sight, seems to have been acquainted for years—for a whole life-time."

"Have you felt that, too?" said Barbara, mournfully. "Poor boy! that feeling comes with a rare and peculiar organization, which causes the possessor much suffering."

"And am I to know much suffering, do you think?" the youth questioned eagerly, with a half-defiant look, as if ready to dare the worst that fate could heap upon him. "Shall I suffer, do you think?"

"Is it not the fate of humanity? Endurance is the great lesson of life! But it is very hard to learn how to suffer with patience—the pain is not so much as the struggle for resignation. Oh, that is hard to bear!"

Barbara's head drooped forward again, and a mist stole over her eyes, till they shone like the reflection of star-beams through dark waters.

"Endurance—I don't like the word! I should never learn to be patient, never!" exclaimed Lovel, with his quick impetuosity. "I could bear any suffering that came to me, but I would not be resigned. I would battle with adversity as if it were an enemy who had assailed me unawares."

"Poor boy—poor fleeting spring of life!" murmured Barbara. "No, no—you think this now, while the elasticity of your spirits is unimpaired, but that will not outlast a great sorrow, one which crushes out all hope! You must learn to accept life as it is—press the crown of thorns courageously down upon your heart, and pray to God for comfort and strength—in His good time and method they would come to you."

"I could not pray if I were wretched," returned Lovel; "I should not believe that God heard while it pleased Him to chastise me."

"That is not the language of this Puritan land," said Barbara, with sorrowful severity; "the teachings of your boyhood should have prevented the birth of such thoughts. Whence come they?"

"I do not know—they torment me much. Often in church they haunt me, drowning the voice of prayer and thanksgiving."

"Pray to God!" said Barbara; "He alone can aid you."

"But he seems so far off—I cannot feel that I am heard! The religion that our ministers teach is so hard and stern—so unforgiving and unpitying. Surely, if God be a just and perfect being, He cannot so harshly regard our errors!"

"Ah, child, He judges not as man does—He sees the motive, and oftentimes pardons that which poor, weak mortals, in their short-sightedness, condemn with relentless severity."

"But what right have they to judge others thus, those cold, iron preachers? Piety does not consist in smothering all the natural and beautiful impulses of the heart—"

"These impulses are the soul's best religion," interrupted Barbara, gently.

"These men have frozen every feeling in their natures, and if they do no wrong it is only because their hearts are so icy that they have few weaknesses left. There is little merit in passive goodness when no temptation to error exists."

"Are you not falling into the same fault for which you blame them?" said Barbara, smiling more cheerfully.

"It may be," replied Lovel; "but I lose all patience with their superstitious observances. My heart has turned almost with loathing from their creed since this nightmare of witchcraft has desolated so many happy hearths, and murdered so many innocent creatures."

"It is horrible, indeed," said Barbara, with a shudder; "I have read strange accounts, but they seemed too terrible for reality."

"Lady, they were true—terribly true! The barbarity of these persecutions is beyond the power of words to describe."

"Can human beings thus be led astray by superstitious fears?" said Barbara, shuddering anew beneath the horror of the thought.

"I saw an execution once," continued Lovel, growing pale at the recollection, "and it has haunted me ever since, sleeping and waking. Two women were the victims—one a withered old crone, and the other a girl, as young and fair as Elizabeth Parris. They brought them out of the jail, where they had lain for weeks—out before that hooting mob, which hailed them with shouts and curses. The old woman, bent and wrinkled, cowered and shrieked, but she might as well have pleaded for mercy from a herd of wild beasts. She struggled and writhed when they bound her hands, but what was her feeble strength in the clutch of those infuriated men? The girl walked out alone—very pale, but calm as a bride on her way to the altar. A Bible was in her hand. Her eyes were raised, and her smiling lips parted in fervent prayer, as if the angels, whom she was so soon to join, were giving her strength in that terrible hour. They cursed her, they reviled her—but she did not heed. They caught hold of her arm to drag her on, but she waved them aside and walked forward to the gallows. It was her own sister who had accused her from jealousy. The fiend stood by and watched the consummation of her work! They tied her hands—the noose was adjusted—the word given; with a shriek the old woman rushed into eternity. Then the pure spirit of that girl followed, her lips moving in prayer to the last."

Lovel broke off, and passed his hands before his eyes to drive away the fearful images which his description had aroused. Barbara had fallen back upon her seat, hiding her face in her hands, shivering with horror and pain.

"Terrible! terrible! God pardon them!" she gasped, "for they know not what they do!"

"I tell you he will curse them for it—oh yes, I do believe there is an eternity of suffering, and it is men like those who must endure it. There stood the ministers and the judges in solemn array looking on—the selectmen of the church and town—and enormities like these they call religion—"

"No more, say no more!" pleaded Barbara. "I feel it all—I cannot breathe—I seem to have the hangman's cord on my throat—his rough grasp on my arm—do not speak of it again."

She was writhing with strange anguish—it seemed to her as if his words had been a premonition of doom!

"I must go and walk in the garden," she said, arising; "this has driven me wild."

She passed down the steps, and the young man turned to follow; but at that moment, through the oaken door, came an imperious summons, twice repeated—

"Norman Lovel! Norman Lovel!"

It was the governor's voice, in a tone of command that he never used unless greatly excited. Norman uttered an apology, which Barbara did not heed, and rushed into the hall.