The Pastor and His Parishioner

           Slowlyastheministerwalked,hehadalmostgonebybeforeHesterPrynnecouldgathervoiceenoughtoattracthisobservation.Atlengthshesucceeded.

           "ArthurDimmesdale!"shesaid,faintlyatfirst,thenlouder,buthoarsely—"ArthurDimmesdale!"

           "Whospeaks?"answeredtheminister.Gatheringhimselfquicklyup,hestoodmoreerect,likeamantakenbysurpriseinamoodtowhichhewasreluctanttohavewitnesses.Throwinghiseyesanxiouslyinthedirectionofthevoice,heindistinctlybeheldaformunderthetrees,cladingarmentssosombre,andsolittlerelievedfromthegraytwilightintowhichthecloudedskyandtheheavyfoliagehaddarkenedthenoontide,thatheknewnotwhetheritwereawomanorashadow.Itmaybethathispathwaythroughlifewashauntedthusbyaspectrethathadstolenoutfromamonghisthoughts.

           Hemadeastepnigher,anddiscoveredthescarletletter.

           "Hester!HesterPrynne!’,saidhe;"isitthou?Artthouinlife?"

           "Evenso."sheanswered."Insuchlifeashasbeenminethesesevenyearspast!Andthou,ArthurDimmesdale,dostthouyetlive?"

           Itwasnowonderthattheythusquestionedoneanother’sactualandbodilyexistence,andevendoubtedoftheirown.Sostrangelydidtheymeetinthedimwoodthatitwaslikethefirstencounterintheworldbeyondthegraveoftwospiritswhohadbeenintimatelyconnectedintheirformerlife,butnowstoodcoldlyshudderinginmutualdread,asnotyetfamiliarwiththeirstate,norwontedtothecompanionshipofdisembodiedbeings.