or flashed with stray movements of fans that, however discreetly waved, betrayed their trappings once in a while by some coquettish tremulousness.  The gentlemen were resplendent also in gold-laced coats and small clothes, gold, or diamond shoe buckles, powdered wigs and queues, and with ruffles of the richest lace about their wrists.  These guests, who were among the people that in themselves, or their descendants, were destined to give the world a new nation, strong and free, showed all that regard to the details of fashion said to characterize incipient decay in races.  But with them it was only an accessory of position, everything was on a foundation of reality, it all represented a substantial wealth displaying itself without effort.  The Sherburnes were there, the Atkinsons, the Pickerings, Governor Wentworth, the first of the Governors after New Hampshire separated from Massachusetts and went into business for itself, and others of the Wentworth family.  Conspicuous among the guests was Colonel Pepperrell who had already proved that the heart of a strong man beat under his laced coat.  His wife, well-born and fine-looking, was beside him, and his son, fresh from College honors, and sipping eagerly the sparkling draught of life that was to be over for him so soon; his daughter also, last year a bride, and her husband.  These were leaders in that brilliant assembly called together to the marriage of Katie and Stephen Archdale.

While waiting for the event of the morning they talked in low tones among themselves of the wedding, or more audibly, of personal, or of political affairs.

“It wants only ten minutes of the hour,” said one lady, “perhaps our good parson may not come this morning.”

“What do you mean?” asked her companion.

“Why, this; that his wife, perhaps, will lock his study door upon him as she did one Sabbath when we all went to the house of God and found the pulpit empty.  There’s no end to all the malicious tricks she plays him.  Poor, good man.”

“Do you know,” said a beruffled gentleman in another part of the room to his next neighbor, “what a preposterous proposal that ragged fellow, Bill Goulding, made to Governor Wentworth last week?  He is a good-for-nothing, and the whole scheme is thought to have been merely a plan to talk with the Governor, whom he has wanted to see for a long time.  It gave him access to the fine house, and he stalked about there an hour looking at the pictures and the splendid furniture while its owner was taking an airing.  The general opinion is that the object of his visit was accomplished before his Excellency’s return.”

“Poor fellow!  One can’t blame him so very much,” returned the listener with a complacent smile, offering his gold-mounted snuff-box to the speaker before helping himself generously from it.  “But what was his scheme?”