e stirred with opulent foldings of velvet, shaking out
vague musky odors; a brooch in the fine lace plaits over her high
maternal bosom gave out a dull white gleam of old brilliants. Mrs.
Prescott was more sumptuously attired than the Squire's wife, in her
crimson and gold shot silk, which became her well, but was many
seasons old, or than Miss Camilla, in her grand purple satin, that
also was old, but so well matched to her own grace of age that it
seemed like the garment of her youth, which had faded like it, in
sweet communion with peaceful thoughts and lavender and rose-leaves.

Squire Eben Merritt stood between his wife and daughter. Lucina had
fastened a pretty posy in his button-hole, and he wore his fine new
broadcloths, to please her, which he had bought for this occasion.

The Squire, though scarcely at home in his north parlor, nor in his
grand apparel, which had never figured in haunts of fish or game, was
yet radiant with jovial and hearty hospitality, and not even
impatient for the cards and punch which awaited him and his friends
in the other room, when his social duties should be fulfilled.

Lucina herself had set out the cards and the tobacco, and made a
garland of myrtle-leaves and violets for the punch-bowl in honor of
the occasion. "I want you to have the best time of anybody at my
party, father," she had said, "and as soon as all the guests have
arrived, you must go and play cards with Colonel Lamson and the
others."

No other in the whole world, not even her mother, did Lucina love as
well as she loved her father, and the comfort and pleasure of no
other had she so deeply at heart.

At the Squire's elbow, standing faithfully by him until he should get
his release, were his three friends: John Jennings and Lawyer
Eliphalet Means in their ancient swallow-tails--John Jennings's being
of renowned London make, though nobody in Upham appreciated that--and
Colonel Jack Lamson in his old dress uniform. Colonel Lamson, having
grown stouter of late years, wore with a mighty discomfort of the
flesh but with an unyielding spirit his old clothes of state.

"I'll be damned if I thought I could get into 'em at first, Eben," he
had told the Squire when he arrived. "Haven't had them on since I was
pall-bearer at poor Jim Pell's funeral. I was bound to do your girl
honor, but I'll be damned if I'll dance in 'em--I tell you it
wouldn't be safe, Eben."

The Colonel looked with intense seriousness at his friend