"Samuel Parris, my kind host, my stern accuser," said Barbara Stafford. "Alas! old man, you seem more dreary than I; no wonder: my troubles will be over to-morrow; but yours--oh! God forgive you, Samuel Parris! May the God of heaven help you to forgive yourself!" Samuel Parris sat down upon a stool. He had come to persuade Barbara Stafford into saving herself by confession, for her coming death troubled him sorely; but when he saw her standing there, so calm and pale, like a queen--no, like that grander thing, a brave, delicate woman, who knows how to die like a woman--he had no voice wherewith to tempt her weakness, or win on her conscience; but sat down, with trouble in his eyes, gazing on her in silence. "Old man," said Barbara, smiling, oh! how mournfully, "if you came to encourage me to support my weakness through the dark scene of to-morrow, I thank you." "Nay," said the old man, "I came to exhort thee to confession." Barbara made a faint movement with her hand. "Without that," continued the minister, "there is no hope. Governor Phipps has left his home, that his heart may be no longer wrung with our importunities, for I, even I, and Elizabeth my daughter--nay, the very wife of his bosom--have been on our knees before him to no avail. Now, that death treads so closely on our words, we, who have been thy honest accusers, would fain see thee sent safely beyond seas, rather than this fearful sentence should be fulfilled." Barbara Stafford bent her face, shrouding it with both hands, while a flood of soft, sweet tears rained from her eyes. It was comforting to know that even these, her bitter enemies, had relented a little. "Old man," she said, with gentle dignity, "I have nothing to confess connected with the crime of which you charge me." "But without confession there can be no forgiveness; of that rest assured," pleaded the minister. "Nor can I ask forgiveness for a crime which has never been committed. Old man, I thank you for this kind intent, but it can be of no avail. I am a weak woman, it is true, and shrink from suffering, but that which God permits I will strive to endure with befitting courage." "Unhappy woman," said the minister, regarding her with a look of intense compassion, "can nothing be done to persuade thee? Wouldst thou die and leave doubt on the soul of an old man who never meant evil by thee?" The minister's voice was low and entreating. He seemed about to weep. Barbara went close to him. "If it will avail to make you happier," she said, gently, "I can say of a truth that I believe you have dealt honestly with me, and when death comes, I, the victim and the sufferer, hold you free from all blame. If I have in any thing brought trouble under your roof, forgive me now before we part forever."