film of green moss.

There had been, years ago, a gap betwixt the trees--a gate's
width--but now none could enter unless the branches were lopped, and
Eben Merritt would not allow that. His respect for that silent file
of sylvan giants, keeping guard before his house against winds and
rains and fierce snows, was greater than his hospitality and concern
for the ease of guests. "Let 'em go round--it won't hurt 'em," he
would say, with his great merry laugh, when his wife sometimes
suggested that the old gateway should be repaired. However, it was
only a few times during the year that the matter disturbed her, for
she was not one to falter long at the small stumbling-blocks of life;
a cheerful skip had she over them, or a placid glide aside. When she
had the minister's daughter and other notable ladies to tea, who held
it due to themselves to enter the front door, she was somewhat uneasy
lest they draggle their fine petticoats skirting the trees,
especially if the grass was dewy or there was snow; otherwise, she
cared not. The Squire's friends, who often came in muddy boots,
preferred the east-side door, which was in reality good enough for
all but ladies coming to tea, having three stone steps, a goodly
protecting hood painted green, with sides of lattice-work, and
opening into a fine square hall, with landscape-paper on the walls,
whence led the sitting-room and the great middle room, where the
meals were served.

Jerome went straight round to this side door and raised the knocker.
He had to wait a little while before any one came, and looked about
him. He had been in Squire Eben Merritt's east yard before, but now
he had a sense of invasion which gave it new meanings for him. A
great straggling rose-vine grew over the hood of the door, and its