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But the object that most drew my attention in the mysterious package was a certain affair of fine red cloth

much worn and faded there were traces amounted of gold embroidery, which, however, was greatly

frayed and defaced so that none or very little of the glitter was left. It had been wrought, as was easy to perceive, with wonderful

skill of needlework, and the stitch, as I am assured by ladies conversant with such mysteries gives evidence of a now forgotten

art not to be recovered even by the process of picking out the threads.

This rag of scarlet cloth for time and wear and a sacrilegious moth had reduced it to little

other than a rag, on careful examination assumed the shape of a letter.

It was the capital letter A.

By an accurate measurement, each limb proved to be precisely three inches and a quarter in length.

It had been intended, there could be no doubt as an ornamental article of dress.

But how it was to be worn, or what rank, honor, and dignity in bypassed times were signified by it, was a riddle which, so evanes

are the fashions of the world in these particulars.

I saw little hope of solving.

And yet, it it strangely interested me.

My eyes fastened themselves upon the old scarlet letter and would not be turned aside.

Certainly, there was some deep meaning in it, most worthy of interpretation, and which, as it were,

streamed forth from the mystic symbol, subtly communicating itself to my sensibilities, but evading

the analysis of my mind.

While thus perplexed and cogitating among other hypotheses whether the letter might not have

been one of those decorations which the white men used to contrive in order to take the eyes

of Indians, I happen to place it upon my breast.

...