mind, that Pearl, with her remarkable precocity and acuteness, might already have approached the age when she could have been made a friend, and intrusted with as much of her mother’s sorrows as could be imparted, without irreverence either to the parent or the child.  In the little chaos of Pearl’s character there might be seen emerging and could have been from the very first—­the steadfast principles of an unflinching courage—­an uncontrollable will—­sturdy pride, which might be disciplined into self-respect—­and a bitter scorn of many things which, when examined, might be found to have the taint of falsehood in them.  She possessed affections, too, though hitherto acrid and disagreeable, as are the richest flavours of unripe fruit.  With all these sterling attributes, thought Hester, the evil which she inherited from her mother must be great indeed, if a noble woman do not grow out of this elfish child.

Pearl’s inevitable tendency to hover about the enigma of the scarlet letter seemed an innate quality of her being.  From the earliest epoch of her conscious life, she had entered upon this as her appointed mission.  Hester had often fancied that Providence had a design of justice and retribution, in endowing the child with this marked propensity; but never, until now, had she bethought herself to ask, whether, linked with that design, there might not likewise be a purpose of mercy and beneficence.  If little Pearl were entertained with faith and trust, as a spirit messenger no less than an earthly child, might it not be her errand to soothe away the sorrow that lay cold in her mother’s heart, and converted it into a tomb?—­and to help her to overcome the passion, once so wild, and even yet neither dead nor asleep, but only imprisoned within the same tomb-like heart?

Such were some of the thoughts that now stirred in Hester’s mind, with as much vivacity of impression as if they had actually been whispered into her ear.  And there was little Pearl, all this while, holding her mother’s hand in both her own, and turning her face upward, while she put these searching questions, once and again, and still a third time.

“What does the letter mean, mother? and why dost thou wear it? and why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?”

“What shall I say?” thought Hester to herself.  “No! if this be the price of the child’s sympathy, I cannot pay it.”

Then she spoke aloud—­

“Silly Pearl,” said she, “what questions are these?  There are many things in this world that a child must not ask about.  What know I of the minister’s heart?  And as for the scarlet letter, I wear it for the sake of its gold thread.”

In all the seven bygone years, Hester Prynne had never before been false to the symbol on her bosom.  It may be that it was the talisman of a stern and severe, but yet a guardian spirit, who now forsook her; as recognising that, in spite of his strict watch over her heart, some new evil had crept into it, or some old one had never been expelled.  As for little Pearl, the earnestness soon passed out of her face.