Chapter 31

"Therefore, lay bare your bosom."

Merchant of Venice.

The night that succeeded was wild and melancholy. The moon was nearly
full, but its place in the heavens was only seen, as the masses of vapor
which drove through the air occasionally opened, suffering short gleams of
fitful light to fall on the scene below. A south-western wind rather
moaned than sighed through the forest, and there were moments when its
freshness increased, till every leaf seemed a tongue, and each low plant
appeared to be endowed with the gift of speech. With the exception of
these imposing and not unpleasing natural sounds, there was a solemn quiet
in and about the village of the Wish-Ton-Wish. An hour before the moment
when we resume the action of the legend, the sun had settled into the
neighboring forest, and most of its simple and laborious inhabitants had
already sought their rest.

The lights however still shone through many of the windows of the
"Heathcote house," as, in the language of the country, the dwelling of the
Puritan was termed. There was the usual stirring industry in and about the
offices, and the ordinary calm was reigning in the superior parts of the
habitation. A solitary man was to be seen on its piazza. It was young Mark
Heathcote, who paced the long and narrow gallery, as if impatient of some
interruption to his wishes.

The uneasiness of the young man was of short continuance; for, ere he had
been many minutes at his post, a door opened, and two light and timid
forms glided out of the house.

"Thou hast not come alone, Martha," said the youth, half-displeased. "I
told thee that the matter I had to say was for thine own ear."

"It is our Ruth. Thou knowest, Mark, that she may not be left alone, for
we fear her return to the forest. She is like some ill-tamed fawn, that
would be apt to leap away at the first well-known sound from the woods.
Even now, I fear that we are too much asunder.

"Fear nothing; my sister fondles her infant, and she thinketh not of
flight; thou seest I am here to intercept her, were such her intention.
Now speak with candor, Martha, and say if thou meanest in sincerity that
the visits of the Hartford gallant, were less to thy liking than most of
thy friends have believed?"

"What I have said cannot be recalled."

"Still it may be repented of."

"I do not number the dislike I may feel for the young man among my
failings. I am too happy, here, in this family, to wish to quit it.
And now that our sister----there is one speaking to her at this
moment, Mark!"

"Tis only the innocent," returned the young man, glancing his eye to the
other end of