is as much to them as a symphony concert and grand opera to their
city brethren, and a sewing church sociable as an afternoon tea.
Though the standard of taste of the simple villagers, and their
complete satisfaction therewith, may reasonably be lamented, as also
their restricted view of life, they are not to be pitied, generally
speaking, for their unhappiness in consequence. It may be that the
lack of unhappiness constitutes the real tragedy.



Chapter I


At half-past six o'clock on Sunday night Barnabas came out of his
bedroom. The Thayer house was only one story high, and there were no
chambers. A number of little bedrooms were clustered around the three
square rooms--the north and south parlors, and the great kitchen.

Barnabas walked out of his bedroom straight into the kitchen where
the other members of the family were. They sat before the hearth fire
in a semi-circle--Caleb Thayer, his wife Deborah, his son Ephraim,
and his daughter Rebecca. It was May, but it was quite cold; there
had been talk of danger to the apple blossoms; there was a crisp
coolness in the back of the great room in spite of the hearth fire.

Caleb Thayer held a great leather-bound Bible on his knees, and was
reading aloud in a solemn voice. His wife sat straight in her chair,
her large face tilted with a judicial and argumentative air, and
Rebecca's red cheeks bloomed out more brilliantly in the heat of the
fire. She sat next her mother, and her smooth dark head with its