The doors were all open as well as the windows. She heard the bee buzzing and striking against the ceiling of the keeping-room. Presently she heard another sound that made her drop her cards in her lap and listen intently. It came from down the street, and sounded like an irregular chorus of horns, a medley of harsh, hollow screeches. Lydia frowned. The sounds grew louder; there were also great shouts of laughter and clamorous voices. Soon a company of young men came in sight; there were a dozen of them, and they had great conch shells at their mouths, which they blew between their laughter and merry calls. Lydia stood up. She laid the cards down on the chair, folded the linen cloth which she had spread on the porch floor carefully over the fluffy heap of carded flax, and brushed all the shreds that she could from her gown. Then she walked, carrying her beautiful head high, down to the road. There was a sudden hush when the young men saw her. They took their conch shells from their lips, and saluted her respectfully. One young man, who came foremost of the troop, colored high. One of his comrades nudged him, and he thrust his elbow back angrily in response. Lydia took no notice of the other young men, she walked straight up to this one. He stopped, and all the others halted at his back. “Where are you going, Freelove?” said she. “Not far,” he returned, evasively. “Where?” she demanded. The young man turned towards his companions. “Move on, lads,” he said, in an imperious voice, which he tried to make good-natured, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” His handsome face was burning. The young men trooped on; there was a subdued chuckle. Freelove Keith looked Lydia full in the face, and his blue eyes were as haughty as her black ones. “We’re going down to see Abraham White and Deborah,” said he. Lydia stared back at him scornfully. “You are going down there with those loafers to blow those conch shells under the windows?” said she. “Squire Perkins’s son is one of ’em,” returned Freelove, defiantly. “The more shame to him!” said Lydia. “And the more shame to you, Freelove Keith!” It seemed as if her bright scornful eyes, full on Freelove’s face, could see all the weaknesses that he hid from himself behind his own consciousness, but he did not flinch. “I don’t know what you call shame,” he said. “’Tis what the young fellows in East Bridgewater have always done when they have not been asked to a wedding.” “Asked to a wedding,” repeated Lydia, contemptuously. “A pretty wedding! Deborah Belcher marrying Abraham White, when he’s twice as old as she is, and his wife not dead six months. No wonder she asked nobody to the wedding, marrying old Abraham White for his silver teaspoons and tankard, and his wife’s silk gowns and satin pelisse!”