Cherry, it must be confessed, would have liked to leave her hair uncovered, but this was altogether against the traditions of her family.  But she had contrived to assume the softly-flowing coverchief, more like a veil than a cap, which was infinitely becoming to the sweet childish face, and allowed the pretty curls to be seen flowing down on either side till they reached the shoulders.  For the rest, her dress was severely plain in its simplicity:  the snow-white kerchief, crossed in front and made fast behind; the under-petticoat of gray homespun, just showing the black hose and buckled shoes beneath; and the over-dress of sombre black or dark brown, puffed out a little over the hips in the pannier fashion, but without any pretence at following the extravagances of the day.  The sleeves buttoned tightly to the lower arm, though wider at the cuff, and rose high upon the shoulder with something of a puff.  It was a simple and by no means an unbecoming style of costume; but Cherry secretly repined at the monotony of always dressing in precisely the same fashion.  Other friends of her own standing had plenty of pretty things suited to their station, and why not she?  If she asked the question of any, the answer she always got was that her father followed the Puritan fashions of dressing and thinking and speaking, and that he held fine clothes in abhorrence.  Cherry would pout a little, and think it a hard thing that she had been born a Puritan’s daughter; but on the whole she was happy and contented enough, only she did reckon the rule of Aunt Susan in her father’s house as something of a hardship.

But it did not do to offend that worthy dame, who was the very model of all housewives, and whose careful management and excellent cookery caused Martin Holt’s house to be something of a proverb and a pattern to other folks’ wives.  So now the girl replied submissively: 

“I need not spin, an it please thee not, aunt.  Hast thou aught for me to do below?”

“Ay, plenty, child, if thou canst give thy mind to work.  Abraham Dyson and Anthony Cole sup with us tonight, and I am making a herring pie.”

A herring pie was a serious undertaking in the domestic economy of the house on the bridge, and Mistress Susan prided herself on her skill in the concoction of this delicate dish above almost any other achievement.  She had a mysterious receipt of her own for it, into the secret of which she would let no other living soul, not even the dutiful nieces who assisted at the manufacture of the component parts.  Cherry heaved a sigh when she heard what was in prospect, but laid aside her distaff and proceeded to don a great coarse apron, and to unbutton and turn back her sleeves, leaving her pretty round white arms bare for her culinary task.  But there was a little pucker of perplexity and vexation on her forehead, which was not caused by any distaste of cookery.