Long as was the sermon—­and of not a moment of its orthodox length was it defrauded—­it was listened to with the deepest attention, by the older members, especially, of the congregation.  The grave decorum of a place of public worship forbade any open exhibition of approval, but more than one knit brow and lighted eye, betrayed the emotions excited by the allusions.  Let it be remembered, it was nearer the times that tried men’s souls; the later events were fresh in their memory; some of the hearers, perhaps, had borne a personal part in them, and all were animated by the generous fire of ’76—­sparks of which, we trust, still glimmer in the bosoms of their descendants.  What to us, in these colder and as some say more worldly days, might have seemed extravagant, if not vain-glorious, was to them sober truth; and if there were any who, perverting into poison what was meant for wholesome nutriment, thanked God that they were not as other men, there were others who, without losing their humility, felt an impulse given to the nobler feelings.

At the conclusion of the services, there was the usual grasping of hands, and congratulations of the season, and inquiries after healths, and encomiums on the sermon, when the assembly dispersed to their homes, to attend, in another form, to the duties of the day.  Mr. Armstrong and Faith waited for the minister, and the three walked home together.  They were overtaken and joined by Doctor Elmer, who expressed regret at having been detained from the services by professional duties.

“But,” added he, looking at Mr. Robinson, and bowing courteously, “if I have been so unfortunate as to miss of one feast, I do not mean to be deprived of another.  I may say of myself, as Shakspeare says of somebody, ‘Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.’”

“I hope your Puritan principles do not consist merely in eating Thanksgiving dinners,” said Mr. Robinson, with a smile.

“And remember, doctor,” observed Faith, “what your own Shakspeare says again—­

                                 “’dainty bits
  Make rich the ribs, but bankerout quite the wits.’”

“My dear,” interposed Mr. Armstrong, “is not this conversation of too light a character?”

But he could not immediately check the doctor.

“Ha, Miss Faith,” he cried, “’wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit, in an instant?  I pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain meaning.’  But

  ’The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
    As is the razor’s edge invisible,
  Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen.’ 
Come,” he added, observing that Mr. Armstrong looked grave, “take my arm, and we will discuss some serious subject, together.”  So saying, he offered his arm to Faith, which she took, and they followed, at a few steps distance, after Mr. Armstrong and the minister.

“I am afraid,” said the doctor, slackening his pace, so as to allow the others to get out of hearing, “you would prefer a certain young gentleman’s arm to that of an old bachelor.  It is rather hard that the rogues, whose principal recommendation, I flatter myself, is that they are twenty years younger, should steal away all my sweethearts.”