mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile.  But that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them.  Were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then.  Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, confused and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper’s eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance.  Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a General Synod.

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black veil had impressed all besides herself.  When the deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she with the calm energy of her character determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper every moment more darkly than before.  As his plighted wife it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed.  At the minister’s first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity which made the task easier both for him and her.  After he had seated himself she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude; it was but a double fold of crape hanging down from his forehead to his mouth and slightly stirring with his breath.

“No,” said she, aloud, and smiling, “there is nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except that it hides a face which I am always glad to look upon.  Come, good sir; let the sun shine from behind the cloud.  First lay aside your black veil, then tell me why you put it on.”

Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly.

“There is an hour to come,” said he, “when all of us shall cast aside our veils.  Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then.”

“Your words are a mystery too,” returned the young lady.  “Take away the veil from them, at least.”

“Elizabeth, I will,” said he, “so far as my vow may suffer me.  Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends.  No mortal eye will see it withdrawn.  This dismal shade must separate me from the world; even you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it.”

“What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” she earnestly inquired, “that you should thus darken your eyes for ever?”

“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. Hooper, “I, perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil.”

“But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?” urged Elizabeth.  “Beloved and respected as you are, there may be whispers that you hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin.  For the sake of your holy office do away this scandal.”