brow of a precipitous mountain, and leave there the frown which you at once feel to be eternal. Hepzibah almost adopted the insane belief that it was her old Puritan ancestor, and not the modern Judge, on whom she had just been wreaking the bitterness of her heart. Never did a man show stronger proof of the lineage attributed to him than Judge Pyncheon, at this crisis, by his unmistakable resemblance to the picture in the inner room.

“Cousin Hepzibah,” said he very calmly, “it is time to have done with this.”

“With all my heart!” answered she. “Then, why do you persecute us any longer? Leave poor Clifford and me in peace. Neither of us desires anything better!”

“It is my purpose to see Clifford before I leave this house,”