As we stood around the grave, I looked often towards Priscilla, dreading to see her wholly overcome with grief.  And deeply grieved, in truth, she was.  But a character so simply constituted as hers has room only for a single predominant affection.  No other feeling can touch the heart’s inmost core, nor do it any deadly mischief.  Thus, while we see that such a being responds to every breeze with tremulous vibration, and imagine that she must be shattered by the first rude blast, we find her retaining her equilibrium amid shocks that might have overthrown many a sturdier frame.  So with Priscilla; her one possible misfortune was Hollingsworth’s unkindness; and that was destined never to befall her, never yet, at least, for Priscilla has not died.

But Hollingsworth!  After all the evil that he did, are we to leave him thus, blest with the entire devotion of this one true heart, and with wealth at his disposal to execute the long-contemplated project that had led him so far astray?  What retribution is there here?  My mind being vexed with precisely this query, I made a journey, some years since, for the sole purpose of catching a last glimpse of Hollingsworth, and judging for myself whether he were a happy man or no.  I learned that he inhabited a small cottage, that his way of life was exceedingly retired, and that my only chance of encountering him or Priscilla was to meet them in a secluded lane, where, in the latter part of the afternoon, they were accustomed to walk.  I did meet them, accordingly.  As they approached me, I observed in Hollingsworth’s face a depressed and melancholy look, that seemed habitual; the powerfully built man showed a self-distrustful weakness, and a childlike or childish tendency to press close, and closer still, to the side of the slender woman whose arm was within his.  In Priscilla’s manner there was a protective and watchful quality, as if she felt herself the guardian of her companion; but, likewise, a deep, submissive, unquestioning reverence, and also a veiled happiness in her fair and quiet countenance.

Drawing nearer, Priscilla recognized me, and gave me a kind and friendly smile, but with a slight gesture, which I could not help interpreting as an entreaty not to make myself known to Hollingsworth.  Nevertheless, an impulse took possession of me, and compelled me to address him.

“I have come, Hollingsworth,” said I, “to view your grand edifice for the reformation of criminals.  Is it finished yet?”

“No, nor begun,” answered he, without raising his eyes.  “A very small one answers all my purposes.”

Priscilla threw me an upbraiding glance.  But I spoke again, with a bitter and revengeful emotion, as if flinging a poisoned arrow at Hollingsworth’s heart.

“Up to this moment,” I inquired, “how many criminals have you reformed?”

“Not one,” said Hollingsworth, with his eyes still fixed on the ground.  “Ever since we parted, I have been busy with a single murderer.”