Mass John’s trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which overpowered him for a long space; and even after he awaked, it was long before he could fathom the circumstances of his case, for he imagined he had only been in a frightful and oppressive dream; till, beginning to grope about, he discovered that he was lying on the damp floor with his clothes on; and at length, without opening his eyes, he recovered by degrees his reasoning faculties, and was able to retrace the circumstances that led to his present situation. He arose in great dismay—the day–light had begun to shine into the room, and finding that both doors were locked, he deemed it unadvisable to make any noise, and threw himself upon the bed. The retrospect of his adventure was fraught with shame and astonishment. He had acted a considerable part in it, but he had dreamed of a great deal more, and with all his ingenuity he could not separate in his mind the real incidents from those that were imaginary. He arose with the sun, and rapped gently at the inner–door, which, to his still farther astonishment, was opened by Katharine, in her usual neat and cleanly morning dress. He stared in her face, to mark if he could read any meaning in it—he could distinguish none that spoke a language to him either good or bad—it was a face of calm decent serenity, and wore no shade of either shame or anger—somewhat paler than it was the evening before, but still as lovely as ever. The curate seemed gasping for breath, but not having courage to address her, he walked forth to the open air. It was a beautiful morning in September; the ground was covered with a slight hoar frost, and a cloud of light haze (or as the country people call it, _the blue ouder_,) slept upon the long valley of water, and reached nearly midway up the hills. The morning sun shone full upon it, making it appear like an ocean of silvery down. It vanished by imperceptible degrees into the clear blue firmament, and was succeeded by a warm sun and a southerly breeze. It was such a morning as could not fail to cheer and re–animate every heart and frame, not wholly overcome by guilt and disease—Clark’s were neither—he was depraved of heart, but insensible to the evil of such a disposition; he had, moreover, been a hanger–on from his youth upward, and had an effrontery not to be outfaced. Of course, by the time he had finished a three–hour’s walk, he felt himself so much refreshed and invigorated in mind, that he resolved not to expose himself to the goodwife, who was his principal stay and support among his straggled and dissatisfied flock, by a confession of the dreadful fright he had gotten, but to weather out the storm with as lofty and saintly a deportment as he could.