The man closed the door, turned the key in its lock, and Barbara was alone again--alone, with what different thoughts to those that had occupied her when Lovel came in! Thrilling excitement, eager hope, a wild commotion of feelings forbade all connected thoughts. She walked the floor--she clasped and unclasped her hands--words of tender endearment dropped from her lips. Mine mine! mine! The baby that they told me was dead--so beautiful! so generous! Ah, after this wonderful blessing I should be ready to die. But now the fear of death is terrible. All the life within me rises up to reject it. I would live to a good old age. He, my son--my own dear son--should watch the gray hair stealing over my head, and love me all the better for them. It must be pleasant to grow old in the sight of one's child. This is why he loved me so. I could not understand it--nor could he. How I longed to kiss him as he knelt before me not an hour since! To-morrow I shall see him again. To-morrow--oh, my God! what is to happen then! She paused in her walk, and stood in the middle of the floor, struck dumb and white by a terrible thought. How fate mocked her! This revelation, which had thrilled her whole being with new-born joy, was after all only a temptation to entice her from the sacrifice she had resolved to make. On all sides events seemed forcing her on to death. Now, when life might have been so sweet, she must turn resolutely away from it, and meet her awful fate. Pale still, dumb with mighty anguish, Barbara fell upon her knees and prayed. All things conspired against her. Death, that she had considered with such resignation an hour before, was now surrounded with the bitterness of revolt. Her heart yearned for the life which it still rejected. She knelt and prayed, wringing her hands and crying on God for help--not to escape her doom, but to bear it now that existence had been made so precious. She arose firm and resolute, but not calm--that she could never be again. The struggle in her soul was terrible; but the spirit of self-abnegation grew strong within her, and would prevail. When Samuel Parris entered the dungeon again, he scarcely recognized the prisoner; her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes like stars. A hundred lives seemed to have been crowded into that one hour. Barbara went up to the minister, and took his hand with an eager grasp. "A little while ago," she said, "you asked me to confess, and I refused. I have now recalled you for that very purpose. I had intended to die and make no sign, but that resolve is broken up. Sit down, Samuel Parris, and listen to me." "I listen," said the old man. "It is not of this idle charge of witchcraft that I wish to speak," she said, hurriedly; "but of myself, my life, my history. Can you listen with patience?" "With patience, and in all charity," was the solemn reply.