d 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