round about him, nor fall upon the sacred page. Suddenly, however, a
faint gleam of light was thrown over the volume, and, raising his eyes,
Richard Digby saw that a young woman stood before the mouth of the cave,
and that the sunbeams bathed her white garment, which thus seemed to
possess a radiance of its own.

"Good evening, Richard," said the girl; "I have come from afar to find
thee."

The slender grace and gentle loveliness of this young woman were at once
recognized by Richard Digby. Her name was Mary Goffe. She had been a
convert to his preaching of the word in England, before he yielded
himself to that exclusive bigotry which now enfolded him with such an
iron grasp that no other sentiment could reach his bosom. When he came a
pilgrim to America, she had remained in her father's hall; but now, as it
appeared, had crossed the ocean after him, impelled by the same faith
that led other exiles hither, and perhaps by love almost as holy. What
else but faith and love united could have sustained so delicate a
creature, wandering thus far into the forest, with her golden hair
dishevelled by the boughs, and her feet wounded by the thorns? Yet,
weary and faint though she must have been, and affrighted at the
dreariness of the cave, she looked on the lonely man with a mild and
pitying expression, such as might beam from an angel's eyes, towards an
afflicted mortal. But the recluse, frowning sternly upon her, and
keeping his finger between the leaves of his half-closed Bible, motioned
her away with his hand.

"Off!" cried he. "I am sanctified, and thou art sinful. Away!"

"O Richard," said she, earnestly, "I have come this weary way because I