“Mother,” said she, “was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?”

“Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!” whispered her mother.  “We must not always talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in the forest.”

“I could not be sure that it was he—­so strange he looked,” continued the child.  “Else I would have run to him, and bid him kiss me now, before all the people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees.  What would the minister have said, mother?  Would he have clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?”

“What should he say, Pearl,” answered Hester, “save that it was no time to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place?  Well for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him!”

Another shade of the same sentiment, in reference to Mr. Dimmesdale, was expressed by a person whose eccentricities—­insanity, as we should term it—­led her to do what few of the townspeople would have ventured on—­to begin a conversation with the wearer of the scarlet letter in public.  It was Mistress Hibbins, who, arrayed in great magnificence, with a triple ruff, a broidered stomacher, a gown of rich velvet, and a gold-headed cane, had come forth to see the procession.  As this ancient lady had the renown (which subsequently cost her no less a price than her life) of being a principal actor in all the works of necromancy that were continually going forward, the crowd gave way before her, and seemed to fear the touch of her garment, as if it carried the plague among its gorgeous folds.  Seen in conjunction with Hester Prynne—­kindly as so many now felt towards the latter—­the dread inspired by Mistress Hibbins had doubled, and caused a general movement from that part of the market-place in which the two women stood.

“Now, what mortal imagination could conceive it?” whispered the old lady confidentially to Hester.  “Yonder divine man!  That saint on earth, as the people uphold him to be, and as—­I must needs say—­he really looks!  Who, now, that saw him pass in the procession, would think how little while it is since he went forth out of his study—­chewing a Hebrew text of Scripture in his mouth, I warrant—­to take an airing in the forest!  Aha! we know what that means, Hester Prynne!  But truly, forsooth, I find it hard to believe him the same man.  Many a church member saw I, walking behind the music, that has danced in the same measure with me, when Somebody was fiddler, and, it might be, an Indian powwow or a Lapland wizard changing hands with us!  That is but a trifle, when a woman knows the world.  But this minister.  Couldst thou surely tell, Hester, whether he was the same man that encountered thee on the forest path?”

“Madam, I know not of what you speak,” answered Hester Prynne, feeling Mistress Hibbins to be of infirm mind; yet strangely startled and awe-stricken by the confidence with which she affirmed a personal connexion between so many persons (herself among them) and the Evil One.  “It is not for me to talk lightly of a learned and pious minister of the Word, like the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale.”