The laboring-season is nearly over, the eight hired men reduced to two, and the family-table is spread in the kitchen.  How is the table spread for supper in the house of Colonel Fox, one of the richest farmers in Walton?

This is the way.

Dorcas brushes a scrap from the long table, scoured as white as snow, but puts no linen on it.  On the buttery-shelves, a set of pewter rivals silver in brightness, but Dorcas does not touch them.  She places a brown rye-and-Indian loaf, of the size of a half-peck, in the centre of the table,—­a pan of milk, with the cream stirred in,—­brown earthen bowls, with bright pewter spoons by the dozen,—­a delicious cheese, whole, and the table is ready.  When Dinah appears, with her bright Madras turban, and says she is ready to dish the “bean-porridge, nine days old,” Dorcas tells her she is going down beyond the cider-mill, to bring up the yarn, and, throwing a handkerchief over her head, is out of sight before Dinah has finished blowing the tin horn that summons to supper.

In five minutes, she was beyond the cider-mill, beyond the well, and standing under the old pear-tree.  Behind her, hiding her from the house, is the corn-barn, stuffed and laden with the heavy harvest of maize and wheat, and the cider-mill, where twenty bushels of apples lie uncrushed on the ground, ready for the morrow’s fate.  A long row of barrels already filled from the foaming vat stand ready to be taken to the Colonel’s own cellar, for the Colonel’s own drinking, and as far as one can see in one direction is the Colonel’s own land.  The heiress of all would still be sought for herself.

Dorcas stood in the departing light, and leaned against the pear-tree.  Not yet come?  A flush went up to her forehead, as, dropping her handkerchief, she raised her hand to her eyes and glanced hastily about her.  Her chestnut curls were fastened with a blue ribbon on the side of her head, and the floating ends fell on her shoulder.

This was the one departure from the severe simplicity of her dress, for neither bright-hued calicoes nor muslins found their way to Walton.  Once in a long while, a print, at five times the present prices, was introduced into the social circles of Walton by an occasional peddler, or possibly by the adventurous spirit of Swan Day.  But these were rare instances.

Flannel of domestic manufacture, pressed till you could almost see your face in it, stood instead of the French woollen fabric of modern days.  It left the jimp little waist as round and definite as the eye could ask, while the full flow of the skirt exposed the neat foot, deftly incased in stout Jefferson shoes.  A plaited lawn, technically termed a “modesty-piece,” was folded over the bosom, and concealed all but the upper part of the throat.  Above that rose a face full of delicacy and healthy sweetness.  Eyes full of sparkles, and dimples all about the cheeks, chin, and rather large mouth.  Youth, and the radiance of a happy, unconscious nature, of the capabilities or possibilities of which she was as ignorant as the robin on the branch above her, whose evening song had just closed, and who has just shut his coquettish eyes.