When Governor Phipps and his wife entered the library they found Samuel Parris standing in the midst of the room, waiting, with suppressed impatience, for the appearance of his daughter. He strode forward a pace or two, with eager fire in his eyes, when Lady Phipps crossed the threshold; but seeing that the form he so longed for did not follow, drew back with nervous shyness, shrinking within himself as if the impulsive affection warming his heart were a sin to hide away and be ashamed of.

"Mr. Parris, welcome back again," said Lady Phipps, holding out her plump little hand. "We have been rude to keep you in solitude so long."

"Nay, my lady, it matters not. But the child—my Elizabeth—surely nothing is amiss that she delays coming to greet her father?"

Lady Phipps became thoughtful in an instant, and looked around, wondering where Elizabeth had bestowed herself.

The old man grew white and began to shiver.

"Is the child ill? What malady has found her out? You may tell me, lady, without fear; with God's help I—I can bear it."

The poor, self-tortured old man sat down on the edge of a chair and lifted his large, wild eyes to the lady's face, waiting for the expected blow with piteous trepidation.

Lady Phipps drew close to him, with both hands extended, and a world of gentle sympathy beaming in her face.

"My friend, my dear, good friend, there is nothing wrong; Elizabeth is well."

"Thank God," broke from the old man, while his clasped hands unlocked themselves and fell gently downward.

"I was only wondering where she had hid herself," continued the lady. "Surely, when her father was waiting, she should have been here."

"Nay, I can tarry for the child without weariness, so that she is but well," answered the old man, heaving a deep sigh of relief. "Nevertheless, if she is near at hand—"

"I will inquire, I will inquire," said the lady, turning to leave the apartment, but at that moment the door was thrown hurriedly open, and Elizabeth Parris advanced toward them, her face pale, her eyes red and swollen with weeping.

"Why Bessie, child, what is this?" exclaimed Lady Phipps, "are you ill?"

Samuel Parris arose to his feet, holding out both arms with more passionate affection than had ever broken the iron bands of his reason before.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

The young girl flung herself into those outstretched arms, and clung to her father's neck, sobbing violently.

"Oh, father! father! take me home! take me home! I am wretched here—oh, so wretched!"

The old man smoothed her hair with his hand, and kissed her hot forehead with more than feminine tenderness.

"Hush thee—hush thee, my child," he murmured. Then, turning his face to Lady Phipps, he added:

"Forgive her, lady, she is but a child."

"She is ill, I fear," answered the governor, looking at his wife. The lady shook her head and smiled. Elizabeth lifted her face from the minister's bosom, and tossed the golden hair away from it in childish defiance.

"No, no, I am not ill," she sobbed, "but I can bear this no longer: send me away—let me go back to my father's house—I will not remain under the same roof with her."

"With whom?" asked Sir William; "what means this agitation, little one?"

"With this Mistress Stafford; I will not live another day in the same house with her—I believe that she is a witch."

Samuel Parris suddenly unclasped the wild girl from his embrace, and held her at arm's length, with horror in his face. The other listeners started at her passionate utterance of a word which had already grown so terrible throughout New England. Sir William spoke first; but even his usually firm voice was husky.

"What has she done, my daughter, that you should speak thus?"

"She has made me wretched; nobody loves me, nobody cares for me now, and it is all her work!"

"Shame, child, shame!" expostulated Lady Phipps.

"Where is Mistress Stafford now?"

"Where?" exclaimed Elizabeth, with increased violence; "go into the garden, and you will find her seated by Master Norman, looking into his face with her wicked eyes, and charming him with her serpent tongue."

"Is this true?" cried Sir William; "girl, is this true? Why did you leave them?"

"She fainted after you came in, and he blamed me harshly; then I left them—it is a full half hour since, and they are together still."

The girl threw herself out of her father's arms and clung to Lady Phipps, with a new burst of weeping that her friend strove in vain to check. Sir William strode into the passage, and called in a voice which penetrated like a trumpet through the whole mansion—

"Norman Lovel! Norman Lovel!"

The youth heard the summons as he was following Barbara Stafford down the steps, and startled by its sternness hastened into the house. The governor met him in the hall, and seizing his hand drew him into the apartment where the weeping Elizabeth still clung to Lady Phipps.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said, sternly; "what have you done to this poor child, Norman Lovel?"

"Nothing, sir; I have not seen her for some time. Mistress Stafford fainted, Elizabeth came in for some water, and did not return."

"How long ago was that?"

"Fifteen minutes, mayhap."

"You see," whispered Lady Phipps; "he has lost all note of time. William, it frightens me—what can be done?"

"Are you angered with this maiden, Norman?" pursued Sir William.

"Angered—with Bessie?" repeated the young man; "how can you think it? She knows that I am not."

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips with earnest affection; Lady Phipps gently unlocked the young girl's arm from her neck, placed both hands in Norman's, and left the startled pair standing side by side, in front of the old man, who stood in the midst of the scene lost in astonishment.

A gleam of joy came back to Elizabeth's face, and she stood half terrified, half abashed, like a fawn ready to flee at the slightest sound. She cast one shy glance at her father from under the silken lashes that instantly drooped to her hot cheeks, and then drew away from her lover, ashamed of her own exquisite happiness.

"Let no new trouble come between your hearts," said Sir William, solemnly. Then turning to Samuel Parris, he added with deep feeling—

"My dear old friend, these two persons love each other deeply, truly, I think; as you and I have loved before this. Need I ask you to bless an attachment which has every promise of happiness?"

"But she is a child. My Elizabeth is a babe as yet. It was but yesterday that she sat on my knee learning her alphabet. Why talk of love between any one and a young creature like that? It is sacrilege; cruel, cruel. I have not deserved this at your hands, William Phipps!"

"Nay," answered the governor, deeply moved, but firm in his own idea; "her mother was but one little year older than Elizabeth when she became your wife."

"What! what!" cried the old man, looking upon his child with a sort of terror. "Has the babe advanced so close upon her womanhood? She loves another, and the old man will be left alone. God help us all, for this is a heavy blow."

"Nay, my friend," urged the governor. "The young man is well worthy of any maiden's love. Be content that I regard him almost as my own son. It is but gaining another child, Samuel Parris; a son who will support the declining years of your life with his strong arm."

Parris cast a long, half-reluctant look at the young man, who met his scrutiny with a frank, honest return, that half drove the look of dismay from that anxious old face.

"Oh, father, are you angry with us?" pleaded Elizabeth, creeping to the minister's side.

"Angry! and with thee, Elizabeth?"

"Nor with him? Oh, father, if you are angry with him it will break my heart!"

"Break thy heart, child! What! another? No, no; I have seen hearts break before now, and it was I that did it—I, a minister of God's merciful religion. Love the young man, girl; love him heart and soul. I will make no protest—give no sign."

Elizabeth, smiling through the vague terror produced by the old man's emotion, drew back to Lovel's side. Parris looked at them with a strange, bewildered air.

"They are waiting for something," he said, looking wistfully at Sir William. "Is it the old man's blessing? I must not withhold it, you say. They are young and fair, and love each other dearly. Ah, me! what anguish may lie buried in that word love! Yes, I will bless them. God helping me, I will bless them. Kneel down, young man—kneel, Elizabeth. When human hearts are consecrated to each other, it is a sacrament of which marriage is but the seal. Norman Lovel, take her hand—and God so deal with you as you deal with my child—Elizabeth—" Here the old man's voice filled with tears. He struggled a moment, fell upon his knees before the young couple, bowed his head earthward, and covering his face with both hands cried like a child.

Sir William Phipps went up to the minister, and bent over him, whispering words in his ear which no one else heard. After a little, Parris arose from his knees, laid two trembling hands on those young heads, and spoke to them with such gentle and loving pathos that even Lady Phipps wept. There was silence in the room for some moments after the young people arose to their feet. That solemn benediction had impressed all present too profoundly for the prompt reaction which is possible to lighter feelings. But, after a little, Lady Phipps spoke, smiling through the tears that still lingered pleasantly in her eyes. "Now, Elizabeth, I fancy you will be able to meet our guest with some placidity," she said, kissing the now pale cheek of the almost bride. "Oh, that little, jealous heart, it beats to another tune now. Sweet one, God's blessing be with you, and make you happy as I am." With the quick impulse of a warm-hearted woman the lady began to sob again. It was but the dying out of an excitement which best exhausted itself in such April weeping as a heart unknown to sorrow loves to indulge in. But Sir William always linked tears with grief. As he heard the tender sobs rising in her bosom, he reached out his arm and drew her close to him, soothing her with caresses.

While they stood thus, a white face appeared at the window which opened into the garden, and, unregarded, a pair of wild eyes followed each movement of the features so touchingly grouped together.

Wandering like an unquiet-spirit through the garden, Barbara Stafford had fallen suddenly upon the scene. She saw it all: the young people upon their knees; the old man drooping before them; and Sir William Phipps stooping down to caress his wife.

She drew the scarf, which was trailing to the ground, closely around her, and fleeing through the garden walks like one in fear of pursuit, disappeared in the darkness of the street beyond.