The Hunter, in order to ascertain the significance of this scene, went downstairs and observed that the entrance-hall was sprinkled with white sand, and the best room, adjacent to it, decorated with green branches.  Inside, also dressed up in her Sunday best, sat the daughter; she was spinning as if she meant to turn out an entire skein of yarn that very day.  She looked very red and did not glance up from her work.  He entered the room and was just about to obtain his information from her, when the procession of strangers, including the Justice, crossed the threshold of the entrance-hall.  At the head marched the clergyman, behind him the Sexton, then the peasant, then the maid, then the Sexton’s wife, and finally the Justice, each one marching alone.  The clergyman approached the daughter, who had not yet glanced up from her spinning-wheel, addressed her with a friendly greeting, and said: 

“Quite right, Miss!  When the bride-to-be makes her wheel go so industriously beforehand, her sweetheart may hope and expect to have full chests and boxes afterwards.  When is the wedding to be?”

“A week from Thursday, your reverence, if it is permissible,” replied the bride, turning, if possible, even redder than before.  She humbly kissed the clergyman’s hand—­the latter was still a youngish man—­took his hat and cane from him, and handed him, by way of welcome, a refreshing drink.  The others, after they had formed a circle around the bride, and had likewise remembered her with a handshake and an expression of good will, also partook of the refreshing beverage; thereupon they left the room and went into the entrance-hall.  The clergyman, however, continued to discuss the affairs of the community with the Justice, who, with his hat in his hand all the time, stood before him in reverential posture.

The young Hunter, who, unnoticed by the others, had been watching the scene from a corner of the room, would have liked to greet the clergyman before now, but he felt that it would be rude to break in upon the conversation between the strangers and the inmates of the house, a conversation which, in spite of the rusticity of the scene, had yet an air of diplomatic ceremony.  For in the clergyman he recognized, with joyful astonishment, a former academic acquaintance.

The Justice now left the room for a moment, and the Hunter went over to the Pastor and greeted him by name.  The clergyman started and passed his hand across his eyes, but he, likewise, at once recognized the other and was no less happy to see him.

“But,” he added to the first words of greeting, “this is no place nor time for a talk.  Come along with me afterwards when I drive away from the farm—­then we can have a chat together.  I am a public character here and stand under the constraint of a most imperious ceremonial.  We cannot take any notice of each other, and you too, in a passive sort of way, must conform to the ritual.  Above all things don’t laugh at anything that you see—­that would offend the good people extremely.  These old established customs, strange as they may seem, always have, nevertheless, their venerable side.”