"Parris—his name is Parris."
The woman gathered herself slowly up.
"Samuel Parris?"
"Yes," replied the wife, in a timid whisper.
"An old man now?"
"Yes."
The woman stood upright, struggling to walk, but without the power to move. Her chest heaved, her throat swelled, she groped about blindly with her hand, searching for her child.
"Sister, sister, what troubles you?" cried Mrs. Parris, trembling violently.
"Rachael, that man was one of my judges!"
The words came out hoarsely, rattling in her throat. She fell back, struggled with awful force for a moment, and then a cold, gray corpse settled down in the chair, terribly in contrast with the savage dress. The child, who had been growing paler and paler, went softly up to the chair, and burying its face in the gorgeous vestments that clung about the corpse, remained motionless and mute as the dead. She neither wept nor moaned like an ordinary child, but a dull pallor stole over her neck and her little hands, which proved how terrible that still grief was. Ah, who shall tell how much of the iron that rusted through her after-life, entered that human soul during those moments of silent agony!