ed. But such was not the result. When Mr.
Hooper came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same
horrible black veil which had added deeper gloom to the funeral and
could portend nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate
effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from
beneath the black crape and dimmed the light of the candles. The
bridal pair stood up before the minister, but the bride's cold fingers
quivered in the tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her death-like
paleness caused a whisper that the maiden who had been buried a few
hours before was come from her grave to be married. If ever another
wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the
wedding-knell.

After performing the ceremony Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine to his
lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild
pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests
like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a
glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved
his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. His
frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon
the carpet and rushed forth into the darkness, for the Earth too had
on her black veil.

The next day the whole village of Milford talked of little else than
Parson Hooper's black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it,
supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances meeting in the
street and good women gossipping at their open windows. It was the
first item of news that the tavernkeeper told to his guests. The
children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little
imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so
affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself and he
wellnigh lost his wits by his own waggery.

It was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and impertinent people
in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to Mr.
Hooper wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there appeared
the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked advisers
nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred
at all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust that even the
mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a
crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no
individual