as he stepped into the old chair, in which Moses was to convey him
to the village where he should meet the Doylestown stage. So,

without a word of comfort from Asenath's lips, without even a last
look at her beloved face, he was taken away.

IV.
True and firm and self-reliant as was the nature of Asenath

Mitchenor, the thought of resistance to her father's will never
crossed her mind. It was fixed that she must renounce all

intercourse with Richard Hilton; it was even sternlyforbidden her
to see him again during the few hours he remained in the house; but

the sacred love, thus rudely dragged to the light and outraged, was
still her own. She would take it back into the keeping of her

heart, and if a day should ever come when he would be free to
return and demand it of her, he would find it there, unwithered,

with all the unbreathed perfume hoarded in its folded leaves. If
that day came not, she would at the last give it back to God,

saying, "Father, here is Thy most precious gift, bestow it as Thou
wilt."

As her life had never before been agitated by any strong emotion,
so it was not outwardly agitated now. The placid waters of

her soul did not heave and toss before those winds of passion and
sorrow: they lay in dull, leaden calm, under a cold and sunless

sky. What struggles with herself she underwent no one ever knew.
After Richard Hilton's departure, she never mentioned his name, or

referred, in any way, to the summer's companionship with him. She
performed her household duties, if not cheerfully, at least as

punctually and carefully as before; and her father congratulated
himself that the unfortunateattachment had struck no deeper root.

Abigail's finer sight, however, was not deceived by this external
resignation. She noted the faint shadows under the eyes, the

increased whiteness of the temples, the conscious" target="_blank" title="a.无意识的；不觉察的">unconscious traces of pain
which sometimes played about the dimpled corners of the mouth, and

watched her daughter with a silent, tender solicitude.
The wedding of Moses was a severe test of Asenath's strength, but

she stood the trial nobly, performing all the duties required by
her position with such sweet composure that many of the older

female Friends remarked to Abigail, "How womanly Asenath has
grown!" Eli Mitchenor noted, with peculiarsatisfaction, that the

eyes of the young Friends--some of them of great promise in the
sect, and well endowed with worldly goods--followed her admiringly.

"It will not be long," he thought, "before she is consoled."
Fortune seemed to favor his plans, and justify his harsh treatment

of Richard Hilton. There were unfavorable accounts of the young
man's conduct. His father had died during the winter, and he

was represented as having become very reckless and dissipated.
These reports at last assumed such a definite form that Friend

Mitchenor brought them to the notice of his family.
"I met Josiah Comly in the road," said he, one day at dinner.

"He's just come from Philadelphia, and brings bad news of Richard
Hilton. He's taken to drink, and is spending in wickedness the

money his father left him. His friends have a great concern about
him, but it seems he's not to be reclaimed."

Abigail looked imploringly at her husband, but he either
disregarded or failed to understand her look. Asenath, who had

grown very pale, steadily met her father's gaze, and said, in a
tone which he had never yet heard from her lips--

"Father, will thee please never mention Richard Hilton's name when
I am by?"

The words were those of entreaty, but the voice was that of
authority. The old man was silenced by a new and unexpected power

in his daughter's heart: he suddenly felt that she was not a girl,
as heretofore, but a woman, whom he might persuade, but could no

longer compel.
"It shall be as thee wishes, Asenath," he said; "we had best forget

him."
Of their friends, however, she could not expect this reserve, and

she was doomed to hear stories of Richard which clouded and
embittered her thoughts of him. And a still severer trial was in

store. She accompanied her father, in obedience to his wish,
and against her own desire, to the Yearly Meeting in Philadelphia.

It has passed into a proverb that the Friends, on these occasions,
always bring rain with them; and the period of her visit was no

exception to the rule. The showery days of "Yearly Meeting Week"
glided by, until the last, and she looked forward with relief to

the morrow's return to Bucks County, glad to have escaped a meeting
with Richard Hilton, which might have confirmed her fears and could

but have given her pain in any case.
As she and her father joined each other, outside the meeting-house,

at the close of the afternoon meeting, a light rain was falling.
She took his arm, under the capaciousumbrella, and they were soon

alone in the wet streets, on their way to the house of the Friends
who entertained them. At a crossing, where the water pouring down

the gutter towards the Delaware, caused them to halt a man,
plashing through the flood, staggered towards them. Without an

umbrella, with dripping, disordered clothes, yet with a hot,
flushed face, around which the long black hair hung wildly, he

approached, singing to himself with maudlin voice a song that would
have been sweet and tender in a lover's mouth. Friend Mitchenor

drew to one side, lest his spotless drab should be brushed by the
unclean reveller; but the latter, looking up, stopped suddenly face

to face with them.
"Asenath!" he cried, in a voice whose anguish pierced through the

confusion of his senses, and struck down into the sober quick of
his soul.

"Richard!" she breathed, rather than spoke, in a low, terrified
voice.

It was indeed Richard Hilton who stood before her, or rather--as
she afterwards thought, in recalling the interview--the body of

Richard Hilton possessed by an evil spirit. His cheeks burned with
a more than hectic red, his eyes were wild and bloodshot, and

though the recognition had suddenly sobered him, an impatient,
reckless devil seemed to lurk under the set mask of his features.

"Here I am, Asenath," he said at length, hoarsely. "I said it was
death, didn't I? Well, it's worse than death, I suppose; but what

matter? You can't be more lost to me now than you were already.
This is THY doing, Friend Eli," he continued, turning to the old

man, with a sneering emphasis on the "THY." "I hope thee's
satisfied with thy work!"

Here he burst into a bitter, mocking laugh, which it chilled
Asenath's blood to hear.

The old man turned pale. "Come away, child!" said he, tugging at
her arm. But she stood firm, strengthened for the moment by a

solemn feeling of duty which trampled down her pain.
"Richard," she said, with the music of an immeasurable sorrow in

her voice, "oh, Richard, what has thee done? Where the Lord
commands resignation, thee has been rebellious; where he chasteneth

to purify, thee turns blindly to sin. I had not expected this of
thee, Richard; I thought thy regard for me was of the kind which

would have helped and uplifted thee,--not through me, as an
unworthy object, but through the hopes and the pure desires of thy

own heart. I expected that thee would so act as to justify what I
felt towards thee, not to make my affection a reproach,--oh,

Richard, not to cast over my heart the shadow of thy sin!"
The wretched young man supported himself against the post of an

awning, buried his face in his hands, and wept passionately. Once
or twice he essayed to speak, but his voice was choked by sobs,

and, after a look from the streaming eyes which Asenath could
scarcely bear to meet, he again covered his face. A stranger,

coming down the street, paused out of curiosity. "Come, come!"
cried Eli, once more, eager to escape from the scene. His daughter

stood still, and the man slowly passed on.