It was a cold, chilly evening in our tardy spring: the little family had drawn around the cheerful evening fire, and the evening meal was just finished: Edith felt happy, for she had been reading a cheerful letter from Seymore. The shutters were closed, and she had indulged the little Phoebe, as she often did at this hour, with a noisy game. Edith was already tired: she looked at the clock: it was the bed hour for the child. "Come, my child, be serious for a moment, and say your evening prayer." Phoebe kneeled: the prayer was short, but whenever she came to the word God, or Savior, she cried out that she could not say it. Edith concealed her fears, and said, very quietly, "I will say it for you; and now, my child, go peaceably to bed, and pray to God to keep you from telling falsehoods." Phoebe was awed by her calm, decided manner, and, without further disturbance, went quietly to bed. Full of anxiety, and even terror, Edith sought her humble friend, told her the circumstance, and besought her to fly and conceal herself. She had provided the means for flight and concealment, and entreated her to use them before it was too late. "I do not fear for myself, my dear mistress," said Dinah. "If the child has such design, she has already formed her plan and already accused us; and she will not be content with accusing me; you are not safe. You do not know her hard and stubborn temper. She is like the young hawk in the nest of the dove." Seeing Edith was dreadfully alarmed, Dinah added, "Do not fear; we are in _his_ hand who feeds the young ravens, and numbers the hairs of our heads." Edith began to be a little more composed, when a loud knocking was heard at the door. Two men entered, well known to Edith; the officials in all occasions of this nature. One was the deacon of the church, a heated fanatic, full of religious bigotry, whose head was too weak to govern the passionate and blind motions of his heart. While he had been under the restraint of Mr. Grafton's calm, enlightened reason, he had been only a zealous and useful officer of the church; but now, that he considered his own light as no longer hidden under a bushel, his zeal burned out with more violence, and he lent himself to all the wild fanaticism of the time. The other was an old man, an elder in the church; with much tenderness of heart; but he was timid, and relied little on his own judgment, which was so little enlightened that he easily yielded to what he afterwards, when the delusion passed away, bewailed with bitter tears. Edith was perfectly acquainted with the characters of both. When she saw them enter, she turned deadly pale; but she pointed courteously to a seat, and placed herself instinctively between them and Dinah, to shield her, for she knew too well that there was no escape for her humble friend if once in their power. She felt, therefore, a sensible relief when she found that she was herself the object of their visit.