Delusion; or, The Witch of New England

by Eliza Buckminster Lee

The poor child, since the death of her only friend, had refused to leave the body, but sat subdued and tearless, like a faithful dog, watching by the side of her grandmother, apparently expecting her to return again to life.

Towards evening, a few persons were assembled in the hut to pay the last Christian services to the dead. The old woman had always said she would be buried, not in the common grave-yard, but near a particular rock where her last son who was drowned had been washed on shore and buried.

The neighbors were whispering among themselves, as to what was to be the fate of the poor child; every one avoiding to look at her, lest it should imply some design to take charge of her. The child looked on with wonder, as though she hardly knew why they were there. She had clung to Dinah as the best known among them; but, when the prayer was finished, and they began to remove the coffin, she uttered a loud cry, flew from Dinah's arms, and clung to the bier with all her strength.

The men instinctively paused and laid down their burden. The voice of nature in that little child was irresistible. They looked at Edith, who had now made known her promise to the grandmother to take care of the child, to ask what they should do. She took the child in her arms and quieted her till all was over, and then, consigning her to the care of Dinah, she was taken to their own home.

Edith felt deeply the responsibility she had assumed in the care and instruction of this child. She knew the tenderness of her own heart, her yielding nature, and feared she should err on the side of too much indulgence. She said to herself, "She shall never need a mother's care. I know the heart of the orphan, and no unkindness shall ever make her feel that she is motherless."

The poor little Phoebe had cried herself to sleep in Dinah's arms, and had been put to bed in her soiled and dirty state. The next morning a clean new dress banished the memory of her grandmother, and her childish tears were dried, and grief forgotten.

Dinah had brought to aid her the power of soap and water, and had disentangled her really soft and beautiful hair; and when Edith came down, she would scarcely have known her again. The soil of many weeks had been taken from the child's skin, and, under it, her complexion was delicately fair: her cheeks were like pale blush roses, and her lips were two crimson rosebuds. But with this youthful freshness, which was indeed only the brilliancy of color, there was an expression in her face that marred its beauty. It was coarse and earthly, and the absence of that confiding openness we love to see in children. It reminded one of her old grandmother; although the one was fair, and smooth, and blooming, the other dark and wrinkled, a stranger would have said they were related.

Edith called the child to her, and kissed her fair cheek; but when she observed the likeness to the old woman, she turned away with a slight shudder, and something like a sigh.

Dinah, an interested observer of every passing emotion, said, softly, "The cloud is not gone over yet; a few more tears, and it will pass away from her young brow, and then it will be fair as your own."

"It is too fair already," answered Edith; "so much beauty will be hard to guide; and then look at that dark, wayward expression."