severe their principles, it would be injustice to represent these people as being altogether destitute of feeling. The belief in witchcraft had struck deep its roots in their minds. Great and manifold were the afflictions which many of their friends and neighbours had suffered, and were still suffering, from the malignant practices of the demons; and it was meet, in their eyes, that such as could clearly be proved guilty of holding intercourse with Azazel, should not be suffered to live. Nevertheless, with many of those not under the influence of the deacon, of whom we have had such frequent occasion to speak, there were not a few who began now, sincerely and even deeply, to sympathize with our heroine in her present melancholy situation. Many endearing associations were connected with the name of Mercy Disborough, previously to her fall into the temptations and entanglements of Satan; -and now that one so affectionate, so charitable, and so kind, as she had been, was about to be cut off from among them, by the most violent and awful death allotted as the portion of the guilty, her good deeds began to rise up in sweet and grateful remembrance before them-as the widows, who, after Dorcas was dead, stood weeping and showing the coats and garments she had made while she was with them.

CHAPTER IX.

-Eyes, look your last!

Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, O you,
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!-SHAKSPeare.

THE unhappy parent scarce parted from his daughter during the short space of time now allowed to her earthly existence. Their chief employment was devout religious exercises, mingled, with holy conversation respecting death-eternity-and the judgment—each striving to solace the affliction of the other by means of those enjoyments in which both so deeply sympathized. But the spirits of poor David were crushed by the impending calamity. He was overwhelmed by his grief, and refused to be comforted. After an affectionate parting from Mercy in the prison-house that evening, he traversed the streets of the village during the live-long night, in deep and unspeakable agony. During the following day, likewise, he utterly refused either nourishment for the body, or comfort for the troubled mind, or even to hold any converse whatever with man. His cheek was blanched, and his eye dull and glassy from excessive weeping. He alternately walked about, with teeth set, and compressed lips, clenching his hands as

with rage; and then he would sit down alone, his bosom heaving and swelling as though his bursting heart would break, until the tears gushed forth to his relief. At length, after one of these paroxysms of mingled grief, passion, and despair, he started suddenly from his seat, and hurried away across the fields, directing his footsteps swiftly into the forest which yet skirted the eastern boundary of Menunkatuck. Plunging into the darkest of the wood he presently disappeared-nor was he afterwards seen. At any other time so strange and sudden a flight would have been arrested as a symptom of madness, or at least, not returning with nightfall, it would have called forth a pursuit. But the attention of the pilgrims was at the present time awakened to an object of more touching and immediate interest.

On the morning of the appointed Friday, the sun rose as bright and cheerfully, and smiled upon the earth as pleasantly, as though before its setting it was not to look upon a deed of blood. A solemn religious service was to be celebrated on the occasion, at the place of execution, which was a beautiful verdant common, some half a mile west of the village. Thitherward, at an early hour, the people began slowly and solemnly to wend their way, singly, in pairs, or in small family groups, as it happened the deep lengthened peals of the tolling bell falling upon the ear at distant intervals, curdling the blood, and driving it chill to the heart. A platform had been erected for the accommodation

of the preacher and his elders, in front of which was planted the fatal stake. The prisoner was seated at the foot, having been brought forth with the usual military pageant of a public execution. She was habited, as on a former occasion, in a robe of spotless white-an emblem of her oft and solemnly asseverated innocence. A large majority of the population of the town had assembled on the melancholy occasion. Of those who remained behind was the tender-hearted deacon, who protested, with great sincerity, that he could never endure such a heart-rending spectacle of suffering as the burning of a fellow-being-although, he piously added, "thy will be done," is a part of the divine prayer, and it is a command of heaven that no witch should be suffered to live!

The reverend and indefatigable Mr. Whitman preached with much vehemence, and to great edification, for upwards of two hours and a half, from the words "Have I not chosen you twelve, and one of you is a devil." At the close of his discourse, he descended the stage with well-meant kindness to the victim, and once more attempted to elicit a confession from her lips-assuring her, that after making the desired acknowledgment, she would soon be happily done with her afflictions. Many of her former associates, whose feelings of compassion had been quickened by the surrounding preparations for death, were now weeping beside her, and urging the same request. But she was inflexible in her resolution-convinced that in

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any event she had no hope of life, and that "to suffer nobly, is the noblest way to conquest." "Do what ye will, Mr. Whitman," she repeated: "I have nothing whereof to confess but my sins to God and as to these scriptures which ye have quoted withal, there is a veil before your eyes; ye see as through a glass darkly; and they mean no such things as ye pretend thereunto. I will in no wise believe in these interpretations by man's device, than as my conscience must needs tell me."

Throughout the whole tedious service, and during the painful preparations that followed, the conduct of Mercy was marked by equal firmness and composure. While sitting, she scarce lifted her eyes, save now and then to steal a glance in a new direction among the multitude, as if to find some one who seemed not to be there. Disappointed at every effort, she would drop her eyes again, and hush the rising emotion of the bosom. Observing the increasing agitation of her father, as the preparations for the last act of the tragedy were proceeding, she exclaimed-" My father! mourn not for my mishaps, for thou didst verily bring me up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, which will have all honour and glory and worship. And what wot you, my father, can be more welcome than from this vale of misery to be borne upwards, yea, on wings of fire, into Abraham's bosom !"

The drooping spirits of the old Puritan were aroused for a time by the surprising energy and