Chapter II.

  “Marry, I saw your niece do more favours
  To the count’s serving-man, than ever she bestowed
  Upon me; I saw it i’ the orchard.”

  Twelfth Night.

On the Sunday in question, Deacon Pratt went to meeting as usual, the building in which divine service was held that day, standing less than two miles from his residence; but, instead of remaining for the afternoon’s preaching, as was his wont, he got into his one-horse chaise, the vehicle then in universal use among the middle classes, though now so seldom seen, and skirred away homeward as fast as an active, well-fed and powerful switch-tailed mare could draw him; the animal being accompanied in her rapid progress by a colt of some three months’ existence.  The residence of the deacon was unusually inviting for a man of his narrow habits.  It stood on the edge of a fine apple-orchard, having a door-yard of nearly two acres in its front.  This door-yard, which had been twice mown that summer, was prettily embellished with flowers, and was shaded by four rows of noble cherry-trees.  The house itself was of wood, as is almost uniformly the case in Suffolk, where little stone is to be found, and where brick constructions are apt to be thought damp:  but, it was a respectable edifice, with five windows in front, and of two stories.  The siding was of unpainted cedar-shingles; and, although the house had been erected long previously to the revolution, the siding had been renewed but once, about ten years before the opening of our tale, and the whole building was in a perfect state of repair.  The thrift of the deacon rendered him careful, and he was thoroughly convinced of the truth of the familiar adage which tells us that “a stitch in time, saves nine.”  All around the house and farm was in perfect order, proving the application of the saying.  As for the view, it was sufficiently pleasant, the house having its front towards the east, while its end windows looked, the one set in the direction of the Sound, and the other in that of the arm of the sea, which belongs properly to Peconic Bay, we believe.  All this water, some of which was visible over points and among islands, together with a smiling and fertile, though narrow stretch of foreground, could not fail of making an agreeable landscape.

It was little, however, that Deacon Pratt thought of views, or beauty of any sort, as the mare reached the open gate of his own abode.  Mary was standing in the stoop, or porch of the house, and appeared to be anxiously awaiting her uncle’s return.  The latter gave the reins to a black, one who was no longer a slave, but who was a descendant of some of the ancient slaves of the Pratts, and in that character consented still to dawdle about the place, working for half price.  On alighting, the uncle approached the niece with somewhat of interest in his mariner.

“Well, Mary,” said the former, “how does he get on, now?”