A south-western wind rather
moaned than sighed through the forest, and there were moments when its
freshness increased, till every leaf seemed a tongue, and each low plant
appeared to be endowed with the gift of speech. With the exception of
these imposing and not unpleasing natural sounds, there was a solemn quiet
in and about the village of the Wish-Ton-Wish. An hour before the moment
when we resume the action of the legend, the sun had settled into the
neighboring forest, and most of its simple and laborious inhabitants had
already sought their rest.
The lights however still shone through many of the windows of the
"Heathcote house," as, in the language of the country, the dwelling of the
Puritan was termed. There was the usual stirring industry in and about the
offices, and the ordinary calm was reigning in the superior parts of the
habitation. A solitary man was to be seen on its piazza. It was young Mark
Heathcote, who paced the long and narrow gallery, as if impatient of some
interruption to his wishes.
The uneasiness of the young man was of short continuance; for, ere he had
been many minutes at his post, a door opened, and two light and timid
forms glided out of the house.
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