Monday, and the hurly-burly of washing over.  Dorcas had nearly finished her “stent” on the little wheel.  As she sat by the open door, diligently trotting her foot, and softly pulling the last flax from her distaff, her glance went hastily and often towards the setting sun.  She could see beyond the sloping orchard, no longer loaded with fruit, the Great Meadows, extending along the banks of the Connecticut.  She could see on the eastern side great white mountains, that went modestly by the name of hills, and that came in after-years to draw pilgrims from the ends of the earth.  They were white-capped and solemn-looking, and girdled by majestic forests; while the Green Mountains, that lay along the horizon, not so high as “the Hills,” were crowned with verdure to the very top, and flaming with autumn dyes.  As far as the eye reached, beyond the immediate view rose an immense solitude of forest that had lasted through centuries.

Dorcas’s eyes rested and roamed alternately over these massive natural features.  She felt dimly in her heart the effect of the solemn aspect of these great wastes,—­these sublime possibilities, concealed and waiting for the energy of man to discover them.  A melancholy, sweet and soft, composed partly of the effect of the view, and partly of the languor of the Indian-summer weather, diffused itself over her.  She accused herself of various sins,—­of levity, vanity, and not knowing her own mind.  Soon, however, feeling her unskilfulness to steer, she abandoned the bark, and left it to drift.  She must see Swan Day.

“And as to Henry!”—­here Dorcas set back the little wheel,—­“and as to Henry!”—­and here Dorcas threw her apron over her face,—­“why, what harm is there?  I’m only going to see what he wants.”

Under the apron rippled and rushed a thousand warm blushes, that contradicted every word Dorcas said to herself.  They made her remember how, only the evening before, Henry had said words to her, which, although she pretended not to understand him, had made her heart beat proudly and tenderly; and how she had thought whoever was chosen to be Henry’s wife would be a happy woman!  How many times had he said, as they stood parting on the stoop, how sorry he was to go, and she, like Juliet, had whispered, ’t was “not yet day”!  Yes, of course Henry Mowers would be her husband, and she would tell Swan Day so, if—­if——­But then, perhaps, there was no such nonsense in Swan’s head, after all.

Why could not the gypsy be satisfied with her almost angelic happiness?  But no.  She shivered a little as the sun went down, and exchanged her working-dress of petticoat and short-gown for something warmer.

Because Cely Temple was cutting apples and pumpkins, and stringing them across the kitchen and pantry to dry, and because black Dinah was making the “bean-porridge” for supper, it came to pass that the daughter of the house was called on to lay the table.  Dorcas bit her lip, as she hastily did the duty, and postponed the pleasure.