There were built-up fabrics, called Charlottes, caky externally, pulpy within; there were also marangs, and likewise custards,—­some of the indolent-fluid sort, others firm, in which every stroke of the teaspoon left a smooth, conchoidal surface like the fracture of chalcedony, with here and there a little eye like what one sees in cheeses.  Nor was that most wonderful object of domestic art called trifle wanting, with its charming confusion of cream and cake and almonds and jam and jelly and wine and cinnamon and froth; nor yet the marvellous floating-island,—­name suggestive of all that is romantic in the imaginations of youthful palates.

“It must have cost you a sight of work, to say nothin’ of money, to get all this beautiful confectionery made for the party,” said Mrs. Crane to Mrs. Sprowle.

“Well, it cost some consid’able labor, no doubt,” said Mrs. Sprowle.  “Matilda and our girls and I made ’most all the cake with our own hands, and we all feel some tired; but if folks get what suits ’em, we don’t begrudge the time nor the work.  But I do feel thirsty,” said the poor lady, “and I think a glass of srub would do my throat good; it’s dreadful dry.  Mr. Peckham, would you be so polite as to pass me a glass of srub?”

Silas Peckham bowed with great alacrity, and took from the table a small glass cup, containing a fluid reddish in hue and subacid in taste.  This was srub, a beverage in local repute, of questionable nature, but suspected of owing its tint and sharpness to some kind of syrup derived from the maroon-colored fruit of the sumac.  There were similar small cups on the table filled with lemonade, and here and there a decanter of Madeira wine, of the Marsala kind, which some prefer to, and many more cannot distinguish from, that which comes from the Atlantic island.

“Take a glass of wine, Judge,” said, the Colonel; “here is an article that I rather think ’ll suit you.”

The Judge knew something of wines, and could tell all the famous old Madeiras from each other, “Eclipse,” “Juno,” the almost fabulously scarce and precious “White-top,” and the rest.  He struck the nativity of the Mediterranean Madeira before it had fairly moistened his lip.

“A sound wine, Colonel, and I should think of a genuine vintage.  Your very good health.”

“Deacon Soper,” said the Colonel, “here is some Madary Judge Thornton recommends.  Let me fill you a glass of it.”

The Deacon’s eyes glistened.  He was one of those consistent Christians who stick firmly by the first miracle and Paul’s advice to Timothy.

“A little good wine won’t hurt anybody,” said the Deacon.  “Plenty, —­plenty,—­plenty.  There!” He had not withdrawn his glass, while the Colonel was pouring, for fear it should spill, and now it was running over.

—­It is very odd how all a man’s philosophy and theology are at the mercy of a few drops of a fluid which the chemists say consists of nothing but C4, O2, H6.  The Deacon’s theology fell off several points towards latitudinarianism in the course of the next ten minutes.  He had a deep inward sense that everything was as it should be, human nature included.  The little accidents of humanity, known collectively to moralists as sin, looked very venial to his growing sense of universal brotherhood and benevolence.