its day. This steeple, it must be understood, was an afterthought, and
its addition to the main edifice, when the latter had already begun to
decay, had excited a vehement quarrel, and almost a schism in the
church, some fifty years before. Here the road wound down a hill and
was seen no more, the remotest object in view being the graveyard gate,
beyond the meetinghouse. The youthful pair sat hand in hand beneath the
trees, and for several moments they had not spoken, because the breeze
was hushed, the brook scarce tinkled, the leaves had ceased their
rustling, and everything lay motionless and silent as if Nature were
composing herself to slumber.

"What a beautiful night it is, Esther!" remarked David, somewhat
drowsily.

"Very beautiful," answered the girl, in the same tone.

"But how still!" continued David.

"Ah, too still!" said Esther, with a faint shudder, like a modest leaf
when the wind kisses it.

Perhaps they fell asleep together, and, united as their spirits were by
close and tender sympathies, the same strange dream might have wrapped
them in its shadowy arms. But they conceived, at the time, that they
still remained wakeful by the spring of bubbling water, looking down
through the village, and all along the moonlighted road, and at the
queer old houses, and at the trees which thrust their great twisted
branches almost into the windows. There was only a sort of mistiness
over their minds like the smoky air of an early autumn night. At
length, without any vivid astonishment, they became conscious that a