University of Virginia Library

1. I.

THE mild May afternoon was drawing
to a close, as Friend Eli Mitchenor
reached the top of the long
hill, and halted a few minutes, to
allow his horse time to recover
breath. He also heaved a sigh of
satisfaction, as he saw again the green, undulating valley
of the Neshaminy, with its dazzling squares of
young wheat, its brown patches of corn-land, its snowy
masses of blooming orchard, and the huge, fountainlike
jets of weeping willow, half concealing the gray
stone fronts of the farm-houses. He had been absent
from home only six days, but the time seemed almost
as long to him as a three years' cruise to a New Bedford
whaleman. The peaceful seclusion and pastoral beauty
of the scene did not consciously appeal to his senses; but
he quietly noted how much the wheat had grown during
his absence, that the oats were up and looking well, that
Friend Comly's meadow had been ploughed, and Friend
Martin had built his half of the line-fence along the top
of the hill-field. If any smothered delight in the loveliness

of the spring-time found a hiding-place anywhere in the
well-ordered chambers of his heart, it never relaxed or
softened the straight, inflexible lines of his face. As easily
could his collarless drab coat and waistcoat have
flushed with a sudden gleam of purple or crimson.

Eli Mitchenor was at peace with himself and the
world—that is, so much of the world as he acknowledged.
Beyond the community of his own sect, and
a few personal friends who were privileged to live
on its borders, he neither knew nor cared to know
much more of the human race than if it belonged to a
planet farther from the sun. In the discipline of the
Friends he was perfect; he was privileged to sit on the
high seats, with the elders of the Society; and the travelling
brethren from other States, who visited Bucks
County, invariably blessed his house with a family-meeting.
His farm was one of the best on the banks of the
Neshaminy, and he also enjoyed the annual interest of a
few thousand dollars, carefully secured by mortgages on
real estate. His wife, Abigail, kept even pace with him
in the consideration she enjoyed within the limits of the
sect; and his two children, Moses and Asenath, vindicated
the paternal training by the strictest sobriety of dress and
conduct. Moses wore the plain coat, even when his ways
led him among “the world's people;” and Asenath had
never been known to wear, or to express a desire for, a
ribbon of a brighter tint than brown or fawn-color. Friend
Mitchenor had thus gradually ripened to his sixtieth year
in an atmosphere of life utterly placid and serene, and

looked forward with confidence to the final change, as a
translation into a deeper calm, a serener quiet, a prosperous
eternity of mild voices, subdued colors, and suppressed
emotions.

He was returning home, in his own old-fashioned
“chair,” with its heavy square canopy and huge curved
springs, from the Yearly Meeting of the Hicksite Friends,
in Philadelphia. The large bay farm-horse, slow and
grave in his demeanor, wore his plain harness with an air
which made him seem, among his fellow-horses, the counterpart
of his master among men. He would no more
have thought of kicking than the latter would of swearing
a huge oath. Even now, when the top of the hill was
gained, and he knew that he was within a mile of the stable
which had been his home since colthood, he showed
no undue haste or impatience, but waited quietly, until
Friend Mitchenor, by a well-known jerk of the lines, gave
him the signal to go on. Obedient to the motion, he thereupon
set forward once more, jogging soberly down the
eastern slope of the hill,—across the covered bridge,
where, in spite of the tempting level of the hollow-sounding
floor, he was as careful to abstain from trotting as if
he had read the warning notice,—along the wooded edge
of the green meadow, where several cows of his acquaintance
were grazing,—and finally, wheeling around at the
proper angle, halted squarely in front of the gate which
gave entrance to the private lane.

The old stone house in front, the spring-house in a
green little hollow just below it, the walled garden, with

its clumps of box and lilac, and the vast barn on the left,
all joining in expressing a silent welcome to their owner,
as he drove up the lane. Moses, a man of twenty-five,
left his work in the garden, and walked forward in his
shirt-sleeves.

“Well, father, how does thee do?” was his quiet greeting,
as they shook hands.

“How's mother, by this time?” asked Eli.

“Oh, thee needn't have been concerned,” said the son.
“There she is. Go in: I'll tend to the horse.”

Abigail and her daughter appeared on the piazza. The
mother was a woman of fifty, thin and delicate in frame,
but with a smooth, placid beauty of countenance which had
survived her youth. She was dressed in a simple dove-colored
gown, with book-muslin cap and handkerchief, so
scrupulously arranged that one might have associated with
her for six months without ever discovering a spot on the
former, or an uneven fold in the latter. Asenath, who followed,
was almost as plainly attired, her dress being a
dark-blue calico, while a white pasteboard sun-bonnet, with
broad cape, covered her head.

“Well, Abigail, how art thou?” said Eli, quietly giving
his hand to his wife.

“I'm glad to see thee back,” was her simple welcome.

No doubt they had kissed each other as lovers, but
Asenath had witnessed this manifestation of affection but
once in her life—after the burial of a younger sister. The
fact impressed her with a peculiar sense of sanctity and
solemnity: it was a caress wrung forth by a season of tribulation,

and therefore was too earnest to be profaned to
the uses of joy. So far, therefore, from expecting a paternal
embrace, she would have felt, had it been given,
like the doomed daughter of the Gileadite, consecrated to
sacrifice.

Both she and her mother were anxious to hear the proceedings
of the meeting, and to receive personal news of
the many friends whom Eli had seen; but they asked few
questions until the supper-table was ready and Moses had
come in from the barn. The old man enjoyed talking,
but it must be in his own way and at his own good time.
They must wait until the communicative spirit should
move him. With the first cup of coffee the inspiration
came. Hovering at first over indifferent details, he gradually
approached those of more importance,—told of the addresses
which had been made, the points of discipline discussed,
the testimony borne, and the appearance and genealogy
of any new Friends who had taken a prominent part
therein. Finally, at the close of his relation, he said—

“Abigail, there is one thing I must talk to thee about.
Friend Speakman's partner,—perhaps thee's heard of him,
Richard Hilton,—has a son who is weakly. He's two or
three years younger than Moses. His mother was consumptive,
and they're afraid he takes after her. His father
wants to send him into the country for the summer—to
some place where he'll have good air, and quiet, and moderate
exercise, and Friend Speakman spoke of us. I thought
I'd mention it to thee, and if thee thinks well of it, we can
send word down next week, when Josiah Comly goes.”

“What does thee think?” asked his wife, after a pause.

“He's a very quiet, steady young man, Friend Speakman
says, and would be very little trouble to thee. I
thought perhaps his board would buy the new yoke of
oxen we must have in the fall, and the price of the fat
ones might go to help set up Moses. But it's for thee to
decide.”

“I suppose we could take him,” said Abigail, seeing
that the decision was virtually made already; “there's the
corner room, which we don't often use. Only, if he should
get worse on our hands—”

“Friend Speakman says there's no danger. He is
only weak-breasted, as yet, and clerking isn't good for
him. I saw the young man at the store. If his looks
don't belie him, he's well-behaved and orderly.”

So it was settled that Richard Hilton the younger was
to be an inmate of Friend Mitchenor's house during the
summer.