, with the inky
pen beside it, was an unfinished sermon, with a sentence broken in the midst,
where his thoughts had ceased to gush out upon the page two days before. He knew
that it was himself, the thin and white-cheeked minister, who had done and
suffered these things, and written thus far into the Election Sermon! But he
seemed to stand apart, and eye this former self with scornful, pitying, but
half-envious curiosity. That self was gone! Another man had returned out of the
forest; a wiser one; with a knowledge of hidden mysteries which the simplicity
of the former never could have reached. A bitter kind of knowledge that!
    While occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door of the
study, and the minister said, »Come in!« - not wholly devoid of an idea that he
might behold an evil spirit. And so he did! It was old Roger Chillingworth that
entered. The minister stood, white and speechless, with one hand on the Hebrew
Scriptures, and the other spread upon his breast.
    »Welcome home, reverend Sir!« said the physician. »And how found you that
godly man, the Apostle Eliot? But me-thinks, dear Sir, you look pale; as if the
travel through the wilderness had been too sore for you. Will not my aid be
requisite to put you in heart and strength to preach your Election Sermon?«
    »Nay, I think not so,« rejoined the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. »My journey,
and the sight of the holy Apostle yonder, and the free air which I have
breathed, have done me good, after so long confinement in my study. I think to
need no more of your drugs, my kind physician, good though they be, and
administered by a friendly hand.«
    All this time, Roger Chillingworth was looking at the minister with the
grave and intent regard of a physician towards his patient. But, in spite of
this outward show, the latter was almost convinced of the old man's knowledge,
or, at least, his confident suspicion, with respect to his own interview with
Hester Prynne. The physician knew, then, that, in the minister's regard, he was
no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest enemy. So much being known, it
would appear natural that a part of it should be expressed. It is singular,
however, how long a time often passes before words embody things; and with what
security two persons, who choose to avoid a
