is not to him but to you that I speak. Tell me,
should he not agree to be my husband?"

"Jean," said the old priest gravely, "marry her. It is your duty, and it
will be your happiness."

Jean took Bettina in his arms, but she gently freed herself, and said to
the abbe, "I wish--I wish your blessing." And the old priest replied by
kissing her paternally.

One month later the abbe had the happiness of performing the marriage
ceremony in his little church, where he had consecrated all the
happiness and goodness of his life.

* * * * *

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

The Scarlet Letter

Nathaniel Hawthorne, American novelist and essayist, was born
on July 4, 1804, at Salem, Massachusetts. His father, a master
mariner, died early, and the boy grew up in a lonely country
life with his mother. He graduated at Bowdoin College, but his
literary impulse had already declared itself, and he retired
to Salem to write, unsuccessfully for many years. Later he
held subordinate official positions in the custom-house at
Salem, and lived for a few months in the Brook Farm
socialistic community. Severing his connection with the Civil
Service in 1841, it was Nathaniel Hawthorne's intention to
devote himself entirely to literature. In this he was
unsuccessful, and in a short while was forced to accept a
position in the custom-house again, this time as surveyor in
his native town of Salem. It was during this period he wrote
"The Scarlet Letter," published in 1850, which immediately
brought him fame, and still remains the most popular of his
novels. Hawthorne himself has described how the story came to
be written. The discovery of an old manuscript by a former
surveyor, and a rag of scarlet cloth, which, on careful
examination, assumed the shape of a letter--the capital
A--gave a reasonably complete explanation of the whole affair
of "one Hester Prynne, who appeared to have been rather a
noteworthy personage in the view of our ancestors." Nathaniel
Hawthorne died on May 18, 1864.

_I.--The Pedestal of Shame_

The grass-plot before the jail in Prison Lane, on a certain summer
morning, not less than two centuries ago, was occupied by a pretty large
number of the inhabitants of Boston, all with their eyes intently
fastened on the iron-clamped oaken door.

The door of the jail be