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something awful only by
hiding his face."
    "Our parson has gone mad!" cried Goodman Gray, following him across
the threshold.
    A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into
the meeting-house and set all the congregation astir. Few could
refrain from twisting their heads toward the door; many stood upright
and turned directly about; while several little boys clambered upon
the seats, and came down again with a terrible racket. There was a
general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of the
men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should
attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to
notice the perturbation of his people. He entered with an almost
noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each side and
bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired
great-grandsire, who occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle.
It was strange to observe how slowly this venerable man became
conscious of something singular in the appearance of his pastor. He
seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder till Mr. Hooper
had ascended the stairs and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face
with his congregation except for the black veil. That mysterious
emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath as
he gave out the psalm, it threw its obscurity between him and the holy
page as he read the Scriptures, and while he prayed the veil lay
heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide it from the
dread Being whom he was addressing?
    Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape that more than one
woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet
perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight to
the minister as his black veil to them.
    Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic
one: he strove to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive
influences rather than to drive them thither by the thunders of the
word. The sermon which he now delivered was marked by the same
characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his
pulpit oratory, but there was something either in the sentiment of the
discourse itself or in the imagination of the auditors which made it
greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heard from their
pastor's lips. It was tinged rather more darkly than usual with the
gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament. The subject had reference to
secret sin and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest and
dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even
forgetting that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was
breathed into his words. Each member of the congregation, the most
innocent girl and the man of hardened breast, felt as if the preacher
had crept upon them behind his awful veil and discovered their hoarded
iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their
bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said—at least,
no violence; and yet with every tremor of his melancholy voice the
hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So
sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their
minister that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil,
almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though
the form, gesture and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.
    At the close of the services the people hurried out with indecorous
confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious
of lighter spirits the moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some
gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with their
mouths all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, wrapped
in silent meditation; some talked loudly and profaned the Sabbath-day
with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious heads,
intimating that they could penetrate the mystery, while one or