She answered not with railing words, But drew her apron o'er her face, And, sobbing, glided from the place. And only pausing at the door, Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze Of one who, in her better days, Had been her warm and steady friend, Ere yet her mother's doom had made Even Esek Harden half afraid. He felt that mute appeal of tears, And, starting, with an angry frown, Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. "Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, "This passes harmless mirth or jest; I brook no insult to my guest. "She is indeed her mother's child; But God's sweet pity ministers Unto no whiter soul than hers. "Let Goody Martin rest in peace; I never knew her harm a fly, And witch or not, God knows--not I. "I know who swore her life away; And as God lives, I'd not condemn An Indian dog on word of them." The broadest lands in all the town, The skill to guide, the power to awe, Were Harden's; and his word was law. None dared withstand him to his face, But one sly maiden spake aside "The little witch is evil-eyed! "Her mother only killed a cow, Or witched a churn or dairy-pan; But she, forsooth, must charm a man!" V. IN THE SHADOW. Poor Mabel, homeward turning, passed The nameless terrors of the wood, And saw, as if a ghost pursued, Her shadow gliding in the moon; The soft breath of the west-wind gave A chill as from her mother's grave. How dreary seemed the silent house! Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare Its windows had a dead man's stare! And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, The tremulous shadow of a birch Reached out and touched the door's low porch, As if to lift its latch; hard by, A sudden warning call she beard, The night-cry of a boding bird. She leaned against the door; her face, So fair, so young, so full of pain, White in the moonlight's silver rain. The river, on its pebbled rim, Made music such as childhood knew; The door-yard tree was whispered through By voices such as childhood's ear Had heard in moonlights long ago; And through the willow-boughs below. She saw the rippled waters shine; Beyond, in waves of shade and light, The hills rolled off into the night. She saw and heard, but over all A sense of some transforming spell, The shadow of her sick heart fell. And still across the wooded space The harvest lights of Harden shone, And song and jest and laugh went on. And he, so gentle, true, and strong, Of men the bravest and the best, Had he, too, scorned her with the rest? She strove to drown her sense of wrong, And, in her old and simple way, To teach her bitter heart to pray. Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith, Grew to a low, despairing cry Of utter misery: "Let me die! "Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, And hide me where the cruel speech And mocking finger may not reach! "I dare not breathe my mother's name A daughter's right I dare not crave To weep above her unblest grave! "Let me not live until my heart, With few to pity, and with none To love me, hardens into stone.