ns of the furniture piled upon them. Abraham Bradbury
had of course been present at the arrival, and the Friends upon the
adjoining farms had kindly given their assistance, although it was
a busy time of the year. While, therefore, no one suspected that the
farmer could possibly accept a tenant of doubtful character, a general
sentiment of curious expectancy went forth to meet the Donnelly family.

Even the venerable Simon Pennock, who lived in the opposite part of the
township, was not wholly free from the prevalent feeling. "Abraham," he
said, approaching his colleague, "I suppose thee has satisfied thyself
that the strange Friend is of good repute."

Abraham was assuredly satisfied of one thing--that the three hundred
silver dollars in his antiquated secretary at home were good and lawful
coin. We will not say that this fact disposed him to charity, but will
only testify that he answered thus:

"I don't think we have any right to question the certificate from Islip,
Simon; and William Warner's word (whom thee knows by hearsay) is that of
a good and honest man. Henry himself will stand ready to satisfy thee,
if it is needful."

Here he turned to greet a tall, fresh-faced youth, who had quietly
joined the group at the men's end of the meeting-house. He was
nineteen, blue-eyed, and rosy, and a little embarrassed by the grave,
scrutinizing, yet not unfriendly eyes fixed upon him.

"Simon, this is Henry's oldest son, De Courcy," said Abraham.

Simon took the youth's hand, saying, "Where did thee get thy outlandish
name?"

The young man colored, hesitated, and then said, in a low, firm voice,
"It was my grandfather's name."

One of the heavy carriages of the place and period, new and shiny, in
spite of its sober colors, rolled into the yard. Abraham Bradbury and De
Courcy Donnelly set forth side by side, to meet it.

Out of it descended a tall, broad-shouldered figure--a man in the prime
of life, whose ripe, aggressive vitality gave his rigid Quaker garb
the air of a military undress. His blue eyes seemed to laugh above the
measured accents of his plain speech, and the close crop of his hair
could not hide its tendency to curl. A bearing expressive of energy and
the habit of command was not unusual in the sect, strengthening, but
not changing, its habitual mask; yet in Henry Donnelly this bearing
suggested--one could scarcely explain why--a different experience.
Dress and speech, in him, expressed condescension r