The woman reeled on her feet as she stood, and fell into the chair again, panting for breath. With an effort she spoke on.
"Thee shall be mother to this little one, sister Rachael."
"Even as my husband shall be its father," said Mrs. Parris, laying her hand upon the child's head.
"That husband—presently—when I have more breath, thee shall tell me about him, for I know nothing. It is long, very long, since I have been able to gain tidings from the settlements. Even now I came upon this house at the last moment, and feeling about to fall to the earth, looked in, seeking for help, and saw thee."
"Thank God that it was my house. Alas, how haggard and worn you look, my sister! I read years of suffering in your face, and I so happy, so unconscious all the time. But no one ever talked of my childhood."
"They would not thus accuse themselves; they who lashed thy sister with stripes, and drove her into the woods like a dog. How could such men look into thy pure face, and tell this unholy truth?"
"But my husband; surely he must have heard of this cruelty, for he was minister here before I was born. Yet when I question him of my childhood, he always puts the subject aside."
A wild light came into the woman's eye. She sat upright in the chair, and looked down into the face of her sister.
"A minister, Rachael! what is thy husband's name?"
The name faltered on the young wife's lips, not as usual from reverence, but fear.