And this sweet and lovely creature was the same pious and patient soul who was afterwards taunted by rude village boys, and pointed at as one who had sold herself to Satan.

One night she had cried herself asleep, and lay in an unquiet and fitful slumber.  As she thought of him alway by day, so now in her dreams the image of Jason Fletcher was fantastically and singularly busy.  It seemed to her that she stood upon an eminence overlooking a peaceful valley of that charming sort only to be seen in dreams.  Afar off, and still, in some strange way, very near, she beheld the youth of her love, who reclined upon a bank beside a quiet stream.  Everything was at rest.  The soft moonbeams—­for, in her dream, evening rested on the valley—­bathed all the prospect in a cool effulgence.  There was no sound, save only that sweet music of never-sleeping nature which is forever heard within all her broad domain.  Still the dreamer felt that there was something direful and most to be dreaded that threatened to invade and mar the heavenly peacefulness.  She felt it coming, and fearfully awaited its approach.  And she had not long to wait.  For presently there appeared, flying between the calm moonlight and the figure, and casting a doleful shadow over his form, a scaly and dreadful dragon, like those we read of that devastated whole countries in the old, old times.  This hideous beast breathed fire and smoke from its horrid nostrils as it flew, and it flapped its fearful way downwards to scorch and destroy the figure recumbent by the stream.

Just when it was stooping upon its unconscious victim, a heavy scale, beaten from its side by the bat-like wings, fell upon the night-mare stricken sleeper’s breast, and she awoke.

The moon was shining peacefully into the room, and she found upon the bed a black cat that had leaped in through the low window.  It was a gentle and loving animal, that had made friends with her upon her first arrival, and it had already coiled itself up on the bed with a gentle purring.

Everything was most quiet and calm as she lay gazing out through the window; still the dreadful memory of her dream weighed upon and oppressed her.  She arose and leaned out into the cool night air.  So leaning, she could see Deacon Fletcher’s house, standing bare and brown in the moonlight only a few rods distant.  She could gaze, with what pleasure or sorrow she might, at the windows of the room where poor Jason lay tossing with the fever.

She gazes earnestly thitherward, and her breath comes thick and short, while her heart seems rising into her throat.  For she sees, gathered thick and dun above the house, a dense, undulating and ever-increasing shadow, that threatens to obscure the low-floating moon!  There is no wind, and it rises slowly but steadily!  Deacon Fletcher’s house is on fire!

Her shrill cries, uttered in wild and rapid succession, aroused the household of Peter Hopkins to the fact that there was fire somewhere—­fire, that most terrible fiend to awake before in the dead of night.  As for Hannah, it was but an instant’s work for her to throw on a little clothing and spring from the low window into the yard.  Then she ran, with what trembling speed she might, towards the burning house.