In the afternoon of a certain summer's day, after Pearl grew big enough to run about, she amused herself with gathering handfuls of wild flowers, and flinging them, one by one, at her mother's bosom; dancing up and down like a little elf whenever she hit the scarlet letter. Hester's first motion had been to cover her bosom with her clasped hands. But whether from pride or resignation, or a feeling that her penance might best be wrought out by this unutterable pain, she resisted the impulse, and sat erect, pale as death, looking sadly into little Pearl's wild eyes. Still came the battery of flowers, almost invariably hitting the mark, and covering the mother's breast with hurts for which she could find no balm in this world, nor knew how to seek it in another. At last, her shot being all expended, the child stood still and gazed at Hester, with that little laughing image of a fiend peeping out—or, whether it peeped or no, her mother so imagined it—from the unsearchable abyss of her black eyes.
"Child, what art thou?" cried the mother.
"Oh, I am your little Pearl!" answered the child.
But while she said it, Pearl laughed, and began to dance up and down with the humoursome gesticulation of a little imp, whose next freak might be to fly up the chimney.
"Art thou my child, in very truth?" asked Hester.
Nor did she put the question altogether idly, but, for the moment, with a portion of genuine earnestness; for, such was Pearl's wonderful intelligence, that her mother half doubted whether she were not acquainted with the secret spell of her existence, and might not now reveal herself.
"Yes; I am little Pearl!" repeated the child, continuing her antics.
"Thou art not my child! Thou art no Pearl of mine!" said the mother half playfully; for it was often the case that a sportive impulse came over her in the midst of her deepest suffering. "Tell me, then, what thou art, and who sent thee hither?"
"Tell me, mother!" said the child, seriously, coming up to Hester, and pressing herself close to her knees. "Do thou tell me!"
"Thy Heavenly Father sent thee!" answered Hester Prynne.
But she said it with a hesitation that did not escape the acuteness of the child. Whether moved only by her ordinary freakishness, or because an evil spirit prompted her, she put up her small forefinger and touched the scarlet letter.
"He did not send me!" cried she, positively. "I have no
Heavenly Father!"
"Hush, Pearl, hush! Thou must not talk so!" answered the mother, suppressing a groan. "He sent us all into the world. He sent even me, thy mother. Then, much more thee! Or, if not, thou strange and elfish child, whence didst thou come?"
"Tell me! Tell me!" repeated Pearl, no longer seriously, but laughing and capering about the floor. "It is thou that must tell me!"
But Hester could not resolve the query, being herself in a dismal labyrinth of doubt. She ed—betwixt a smile and a shudder—the talk of the neighbouring townspeople, who, seeking vainly elsewhere for the child's paternity, and observing some of her odd attributes, had given out that poor little Pearl was a demon offspring: such as, ever since old Catholic times, had occasionally been seen on earth, through the agency of their mother's sin, and to promote some foul and wicked purpose. Luther, according to the scandal of his monkish enemies, was a brat of that hellish breed; nor was Pearl the only child to whom this inauspicious origin was assigned among the New England Puritans.

PERLA

En la tarde de cierto da de verano, cuando ya Perla haba crecido lo bastante para poder andar sola, se diverta la nia en recoger flores silvestres, arrojndolas una a una al regazo de su madre; y ejecutando una especie de baile cada vez que una de las flores acertaba a dar en la letra escarlata. El primer movimiento de Ester fue cubrir la letra con ambas manos; pero fuese orgullo o resignacin, o la idea de que la pena a que haba sido condenada la satisfara ms pronto por medio de este dolor indecible, resisti el impulso y se irgui en su asiento, plida como la muerte, mirando con tristeza profunda a Perla cuyos ojos brillaban de inusitado modo. Y sigui la nia lanzndole las flores que invariablemente daban contra la letra, llenando el pecho maternal de heridas para las que no poda hallar blsamo en este mundo, ni saba cmo buscarlo en el otro. Al fin, cuando concluy de arrojar las flores, la nia permaneci en pie mirando a Ester precisamente como aquella imagen burlona del enemigo que la madre crea ver en el abismo insondable de los ojos negros de su hija.
—Hija ma quin eres t?—exclam la madre.
—Oh! yo soy tu pequea Perla, respondi.
Pero mientras Perla deca esto, se ech a rer y empez a bailar con la gesticulacin petulante de un pequeo trasgo, cuyo prximo capricho sera escaparse por la chimenea.
—Eres t en realidad mi hija? le pregunt Ester.
Y no fue una pregunta ociosa la que hizo, sino que, en aquel momento, as lo senta; porque era tal la maravillosa inteligencia de Perla, que su madre hasta llegaba a imaginarse que la nia conoca la secreta historia de su existencia y se la revelara ahora.
—S; yo soy tu pequea Perla, repiti la nia continuando sus cabriolas.
—T no eres mi hija! T no eres mi Perla! dijo la madre con aire semi risueo, porque frecuentemente en medio del ms profundo dolor le venan impulsos festivos.—Dime, pues, quin eres y quin te ha enviado aqu.
—Dmelo, madre ma,—respondi Perla con acento grave, acercndose a Ester y abrazndose a sus rodillas,—dmelo, madre, dmelo.
—Tu Padre Celestial te envi, respondi Ester.
Pero lo dijo con una vacilacin que no escap a la viva inteligencia de la nia; la cual, bien sea movida por su ordinaria petulancia, o porque un maligno espritu la inspirara, levantando el dedito ndice y tocando la letra escarlata, exclam con acento de conviccin:
—No; l no me envi. Yo no tengo Padre Celestial.
—Silencio, Perla, silencio! T no debes hablar as,—respondi la madre suprimiendo un gemido. El Padre Celestial nos ha enviado a todos a este mundo. Hasta me ha enviado a m, tu madre; y con mucha mayor razn a t. Y si no de dnde has venido t, nia singular y caprichosa?
—Dmelo, dmelo,—repiti Perla, no ya con su carita seria, sino riendo y dando brinquitos en el suelo.

T eres quien debes decrmelo.