“And now, M. le Cure, it 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 being flung open from within, there appeared, in the first place, the grim presence of the town-beadle, and following him a young woman who bore in her arms a baby of some three months old.

The young woman was tall, and those who had known Hester Prynne before were astonished to perceive how her beauty shone out.  On the breast of her gown, in fine red cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fantastic flourishes of gold thread, appeared the letter A, and it was that scarlet letter which drew all eyes, and, as it were, transfigured the wearer.