"
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the dying man, "that sin is off my soul.
Natalie, dear wife, farewell! Forgive--forgive all."
These were the last words he uttered; the priest, who had been summoned
in haste, held up the cross before his failing sight; a few strong
convulsions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame; and then all was
still.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE BIRTHMARK.
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science,
an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not
long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity
more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to
the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the
furnace-smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and
persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days, when
the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred
mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle,
it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman
in its depth and absorbing energy.
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