“I spoke thoughtlessly, I acknowledge,” answered Mrs. Humphreys, much confused by the stern rebuke of her husband. “I meant to say, I hoped she had found a pardon for her sins.” “Have you forgotten that you are a parent?” continued the deacon, solemnly. “Can you suffer the ears of your daughter to drink in such poison! _A professor of some kind!_ Naomi, my child,” placing his hand on the sunny head before him, “beware how you listen to such doctrine; there is but one true faith—there is but one way by which you can be saved. Go to your chamber, and pray you may not be led into error through your mother’s words of folly!” But there were others at Grassmere most anxiously wondering, like good Mrs. Humphreys, “_what they were_,” ere they so far committed themselves as to call upon the strangers. Sunday, however, was close at hand; Mrs. Norton’s choice of a church was to determine them the choice of her acquaintance. Does the reader think the inhabitants of Grassmere peculiar? I think not. There are very many just such people not a hundred rods from our own doors. Unfortunately, on Sunday the rain poured down in torrents. Nothing less impervious than strong cowhide boots—India-rubber overcoats, and thick cotton umbrellas, could go to meeting, consequently, Mrs. Norton staid at home, and on Monday afternoon, after the washing was done, and the deacon had turned his well saturated hay, Mrs. Humphreys put on her best black silk gown and mantilla, her plain straw bonnet, with white trimmings, and walked over with her husband to Silver-Fall cottage. As the widow rented her house of them, they could not in decency, they reasoned, longer defer calling upon her. A glance within the cottage would convince any one that Mrs. Norton and Grace were at least persons of refinement—for there is as much character displayed in the arrangement of a room as in the choice of a book. Cream colored mattings, and window-curtains of transparent lace, relieved by hangings of pale sea-green silk, imparted a look of delicious coolness to the apartments. There was no display of gaudy furniture, as if a cabinet warehouse had been taken on speculation—yet there was enough for comfort and even elegance; nor was there an over exhibition of paintings—one of Cole’s beautiful landscapes, and a few other gems of native talent were all; nor were the tables freighted as the counter of a toy-shop; the only ornament of each was a beautiful vase of Bohemian glass, filled with fresh garden flowers, whose tasteful arrangement even fairy hands could not have rivaled. The few moments they were awaiting the entrance of Mrs. Norton were employed by Mrs. Humphreys in taking a rapid survey of all these surroundings, the result of which was to impress her with a sort of awe for the mistress of this little realm.