player?"

"I do not; but what sin follows being the child of a player, or being
even a player? Nowhere does the Bible condemn the actor for his
profession; and, if the player be godly, his calling is unobjectionable.
Oh, Mr. Parris, eradicate from your heart the deadly poison of
prejudice, and there will appear no harm in that fair, innocent and
much-abused young maid. She has ever been a child of sorrow and of
tears, one who never in thought wronged any one. Tell me that child is a
witch? Mr. Parris, it is false!"

[Illustration: "Then you may both go down--down to the infernal regions
together!"]

"Then," cried the pastor, suddenly changing his tone, turning to
Charles, and bringing his clenched hand down upon the stone fence with a
force that laid the knuckles raw and bleeding; "then you may both go
down--down to the infernal regions together!" The dark look of hatred
and revenge with which the words broke from his livid lips, and with
which he stood holding out his bruised and bleeding hand, made Charles
shudder and turn to go home; but the pastor caught his arm.

"Mr. Parris, let me go. I have heard quite enough. We understand each
other thoroughly."

"And you will not give her up?"

"Never."

"Verily, she hath bewitched you."

"I do not believe in witchcraft."

"What! Do you deny the word of God? Have a care! You are going too far
in this. And your mother?"

"She does not believe in it, either."

"Charles, why have you and your mother grievously opposed me?" he
demanded, his eyes glaring with hatred and his breath coming hard, while
a white froth, tinged with blood, exuded from his lips.

"Because you are a bad man, Mr. Parris," cried Charles. "You are a
saintly fraud."

The rage of the pastor knew no bounds. Pointing his wounded and bleeding
hand at Charles, he cried:

"Go! and may the curse of an outraged God go with you!"

Charles went home.

CHAPTER XI.

ADELPHA LEISLER.

Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
Oh, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
--Burns.

There are moments in every life when the soul hovers on some dark brink.
It may be the brink of atheism, of despair, of crime, or superstition.
Outside influences go far toward i