"Ah!" exclaimed the youth, "now I see a resemblance, vague, hardened, but still I should know that Elizabeth Parris was your daughter." The minister's face brightened like a lamp suddenly illuminated. He reached forth his hand, grasped that of the young man, and his features quivered all over with the gush of feeling that swelled within him. "Is she--is the dear child indeed so like her father? And you know her--you have seen her, perhaps; tell me is she well--does she grieve at the thoughts of home--does she pine for a sight of her father?" He waited for no answer, but heaped question upon question with breathless eagerness. The youth looked at him with amazement. The intense affection which transfigured those stern features exhibited itself so unexpectedly, that for the moment he was speechless. The old man noticed this with a deprecating movement. "She was the daughter of my old age!" he said, with ineffable humility, while his shoulders drooped, and his face bent towards his breast, "she looks so like her young mother." "She is beautiful as an angel!" exclaimed Lovel with enthusiasm. "She is like her mother!" murmured the minister, clasping his hands and looking wistfully out into the distance. "Ah, so like her mother!" "No wonder you loved her mother, then!" said the youth, drawing close to the old man with prompt sympathy. "Loved her--oh, God forgive me--how I did love her, young man! The very daisies upon her grave are like the stars of heaven to me, and she has been dead since Elizabeth was a babe." "Oh, no wonder you look so old and care-worn; it must be like burying one's own soul, to see the mother of one's child die." The old man did not answer, but his hands interlocked more firmly. The feelings swelling in his bosom were too painful for utterance. How far the intense affection, which death could not diminish, had approached insanity, it would be impossible to say; but all unconsciously, the young man had made the minister quiver in every nerve by the genuine sympathy he had given. They walked on together, and entered the streets of Boston in company. When they reached the heart of the town, the old man stopped reluctantly, reaching forth his hand with a piteous smile. "Farewell, young man," he said, "we may never meet again, but--" "Nay, nay," cried the youth, blushing scarlet, "not meet again--God forbid that you speak sooth in this. Indeed, indeed--" But the minister wrung his hand, turned suddenly down a cross street, and disappeared before the sentence was finished. Young Lovel looked after him for a moment, made a step to follow the course he had taken, then returning slowly, walked on. CHAPTER IV. EARLY IN THE MORNING.