It is not to be wondered at, then, that Alice
Goodwin, a young creature of a warm imagination and extraordinary
constitutional timidity, should feel the full force of the superstitions
which swarmed around her, and impregnated her fancy so strongly that
it teemed with an unhealthy creation, which frequently rendered her
existence painful by a morbid apprehension of wicked and supernatural
influences. In other respects she was artlessness itself, could never
understand what falsehood meant, and, as to truth, her unspotted
mind was transparent as a sunbeam. Our readers are not to understand,
however, that though apparently flexible and ductile, she possessed
no power of moral resistance. So very far from that, her disposition,
wherever she thought herself right, was not only firm and unbending,
but sometimes rose almost to obstinacy. This, however, never appeared,
unless she considered herself as standing upon the basis of truth. In
cases where her judgment was at fault, or when she could not see her
way, she was a perfect child, and, like a child, should be taken by the
hand and supported.
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