even that of
the wind. It was like the wailing of some one in distress, and it seemed
to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a
cleared, but uninclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could not
but remember that this was the very spot which had been made accursed a
few hours before by the execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had been
thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they
suffered. He struggled, however, against the superstitious fears which
belonged to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen.

"The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if it be
otherwise," thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight.
"Methinks it is like the wailing of a child; some infant, it may be,
which has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this place of death.
For the ease of mine own conscience, I must search this matter out."

He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fearfully across the
field. Though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled by
the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that
day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness.
The traveller at length reached the fir-tree, which from the middle
upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been
erected beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death.
Under this unhappy tree, which in after times was believed to drop
poison with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. It
was a slender and light-clad little boy, who leaned his face upon a
hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth, and wailed bitterly, yet
in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of
crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand
upon the child's shoulder, and addressed him compassionately.

"You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder that you
weep," said he. "But dry your eyes, and tell me where your mother
dwells. I promise you if the journey be not too far, I will leave you in
her arms to-night."

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to
the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance, certainly not more
than six years old, but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed much of its
infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy's frightened gaze, and
feeling that he trembled under his