"Visiting together" near the woman's entrance were a number of matrons, some in homespun gowns, calico split bonnets and cowhide shoes; others in more pretentious apparel--bombazine gowns, muslin tuckers, and "dress bonnets" of surprising depth and magnitude. Near the other entrance, comparing notes upon fall wheat-sowing or corn-gathering, was a cluster of farmers in shirt sleeves, homespun trousers and well-greased shoes. Upon the horse-block a group of merry belles, divesting themselves of mud-stained riding-skirts, stood forth in bright array--beads and ribands, flaunting chintzes, clocked stockings and morocco slippers. Some distance off, upon the roots of a wide-spreading elm, sat two barefooted, swarthy, scarred old hunters with raccoon skin caps, linsey hunting-shirts and buckskin breeches. Near by, a group of urchins listened with open-mouthed absorption to blood-curdling reminiscences of days when upon this now peaceful slope the scream of the wildcat and the whoop of the Indian were more familiar sounds than the songs of Zion and the eloquence of the revivalist. Less in accord with the quiet beauty of this October Sunday, a squad of loud-voiced, swaggering, half-intoxicated young men lounged under the trees, recounting incidents of yesterday's cock-fight or betting upon the wrestling-match next muster day. In contrast to the other vehicles, the Gilcrest family coach, with its span of glossy-coated bays, presently drew up before the church. The negro driver sprang from his high seat, and, bowing obsequiously, let down the steps and opened the door of the coach, from which emerged, first, Hiram Gilcrest in all the glory of Sunday broadcloth; next, two small boys, then a negro woman bearing in her arms the youngest scion of the house of Gilcrest, an infant in long clothes. Lastly came Mrs. Gilcrest, a fragile, faded woman in rustling brocade and satin petticoat. Close behind the coach rode a horseback party of four--Betsy Gilcrest, two of her brothers, and a young woman in long black riding-skirt and loose jacket, her features hidden by the gauze veil depending from her dress bonnet of corded white silk. Betsy, rosy and dimpling, unencumbered by riding-skirt, dust-jacket or veil, tossed her bridle to her brother, John Calvin, and sprang from her saddle to the stile. Her movements were light and graceful, and she looked like a woodland nymph in a gown of light, gaily flowered chintz, and a large hat encircled in a wreath of bright leaves. As her companion, the girl in the corded silk bonnet, drew up, several gallants from the group of young people near by hastened eagerly forward to her assistance. After doffing riding-skirt and loose jacket, she stood a moment upon the block, adjusting her attire, a robe of misty lavender sarcenet with a pink crepe scarf loosely knotted across the bosom. "I wish she'd throw back that veil," thought Abner, as he stood with Henry a little apart.