“You’d better eat sum’thin’,” said Hiram over the breakfast-table on Sunday morning.  “Got a good long drive afore you, and mebbe a good day’s work besides.  No?  Well, then, Susan, you put the apple-brandy into the basket, and some of them rusks, for I reckon we’ll hev’ work with this young man afore night.”

Susan, bless her good heart! wanted to go along, and as Hiram’s excitement was evidently at the highest pitch, he consented that she should occupy the back seat of the wagon:  “P’raps Miss Stewart’ll feel more comfortable about leavin’ when she sees there’s a woman along.”

It was a rainy morning, and there were but few wagons on the road.  Arrived at the village, we encountered one little procession after another of broad-brim straws and Shaker bonnets turning out of the several houses as we drove past.  They stepped along quickly, and seemed to take no notice of us.

“Reckon we’re the only visitors to-day,” whispered Hiram as he stopped at the horseblock in front of the meeting-house.  “You know where you hev’ to set—­on the left-hand side; and Susan, she goes to the right.”

I followed Susan up the steps, and she hastened, as ordered, to the right, while I took my seat on one of the back benches of the left, against the wall.  It was a barn-like structure, large, neat and exquisitely chill.  Two large stoves on either side possibly had fire in them—­an old man who looked like an ancient porter went to them from time to time and put on coal—­but the very walls reflected a chill, blue glare.  The roof was lofty and vaulted, and added to the hollow coldness of the hall.  The whole apartment was clean to sanctity, and in its straitness and blank dreariness no unfit emblem of the faith it embodied.

Around three sides of the hall, and facing the benches for visitors, the Shaker fraternity were ranged.  The hats and straight straw bonnets hung decorously upon the wall over their heads:  here and there a sky-blue shawl or one of faded lilac hung beneath the headgear.  Across the wide apartment it was difficult to distinguish faces.  I scanned closely the sisterhood—­old, withered faces most of them, with here and there one young and blooming—­but no Bessie as yet.  Still, they were coming in continually through the side door:  she might yet appear.  I recognized my lady-abbess, who sat directly facing me, in a seat of state apparently, and close to her, on the brethren’s side of the house, was Elder Nebson.

The services began.  All rose, and sisters and brethren faced each other and sang a hymn, with no accompaniment and no melody—­a harsh chant in wild, barbaric measure.  Then, after a prayer, they entered upon the peculiar method of their service.  Round and round the room they trooped in two large circles, sister following sister, brother brother, keeping time with their hanging hands to the rhythm of the hymn.  Clustered in the centre was a little knot of men and women, the high dignitaries, who seemed to lead the singing with their clapping hands.