“Reckon we’re the only visitors to-day,” whispered Hiram as he stopped at the horseblock in front of the meeting-house.  “You know where you hev’ to set—­on the left-hand side; and Susan, she goes to the right.”

I followed Susan up the steps, and she hastened, as ordered, to the right, while I took my seat on one of the back benches of the left, against the wall.  It was a barn-like structure, large, neat and exquisitely chill.  Two large stoves on either side possibly had fire in them—­an old man who looked like an ancient porter went to them from time to time and put on coal—­but the very walls reflected a chill, blue glare.  The roof was lofty and vaulted, and added to the hollow coldness of the hall.  The whole apartment was clean to sanctity, and in its straitness and blank dreariness no unfit emblem of the faith it embodied.

Around three sides of the hall, and facing the benches for visitors, the Shaker fraternity were ranged.  The hats and straight straw bonnets hung decorously upon the wall over their heads:  here and there a sky-blue shawl or one of faded lilac hung beneath the headgear.  Across the wide apartment it was difficult to distinguish faces.  I scanned closely the sisterhood—­old, withered faces most of them, with here and there one young and blooming—­but no Bessie as yet.  Still, they were coming in continually through the side door:  she might yet appear.  I recognized my lady-abbess, who sat directly facing me, in a seat of state apparently, and close to her, on the brethren’s side of the house, was Elder Nebson.

The services began.  All rose, and sisters and brethren faced each other and sang a hymn, with no accompaniment and no melody—­a harsh chant in wild, barbaric measure.  Then, after a prayer, they entered upon the peculiar method of their service.  Round and round the room they trooped in two large circles, sister following sister, brother brother, keeping time with their hanging hands to the rhythm of the hymn.  Clustered in the centre was a little knot of men and women, the high dignitaries, who seemed to lead the singing with their clapping hands.

The circles passed each other and wove in and out, each preserving its unbroken continuity.  I looked for Elder Nebson:  could it be that he was joining in these gyrations?  Yes, he was leading one of the lines.  But I noticed that his hands moved mechanically, not with the spasmodic fervor of the rest, and that his eyes, instead of the dull, heavy stare of his fellows, sought with faithful yet shy constancy the women’s ranks.  And as the women filed past me, wringing their hands, I scrutinized each face and figure—­the sweet-faced portress, the shrunken little creole ("A mulatto, she is,” Hiram whispered—­he had taken his seat beside me—­“and very powerful, they say, among ’em"), and some fair young girls; two or three of these with blooming cheeks bursting frankly through the stiff bordering of their caps.  But I saw not the face I sought.