course. The farmers thought her a strange girl, and wondered at the
ways of a farmer's daughter who was not content to milk cows and churn
butter and fry pork, without further hope or thought. The good
clergyman of the town, interested in her situation, sought a
confidence she did not care to bestow, and so, doling out a, b, c, to
a wild group of boys and girls, she found that she could not untie the
Gordian knot of her life, and felt, with terror, that it must be cut.

One summer evening she left her father's house and walked into the
fields alone. Night came, but Martha did not return. The family became
anxious, inquired if any one had noticed the direction in which she
went, learned from the neighbors that she was not visiting, that there
was no lecture or meeting to detain her, and wonder passed into
apprehension. Neighbors went into the adjacent woods and called, but
received no answer. Every instant the awful shadow of some dread event
solemnized the gathering groups. Every one thought what no one dared
whisper, until a low voice suggested "the river". Then, with the
swiftness of certainty, all friends, far and near, were roused, and
thronged along the banks of the stream. Torches flashed in boats that
put off in the terrible search. Hawthorne, then living in the Old
Manse, was summoned, and the man whom the villagers had only seen at
morning as a musing spectre in his garden, now appeared among them at
night to devote his strong arm and steady heart to their service. The
boats drifted slowly down the stream--the torches flared strangely
upon the black repose of the water, and upon the long, slim grasses
that, weeping, fringed the marge. Upon both banks silent and
awe-stricken crowds hastened along, eager and dreading to find the
slightest trace of what they sought. Suddenly they came upon a few
articles of dress, heavy with the night-dew. No one spoke, for no one
had doubted the result. It was clear that Martha had strayed to the