in Henry Donnelly this bearing suggested--one could scarcely
explain why--a different experience. Dress and speech, in him,
expressed condescension rather than fraternal equality.

He carefully assisted his wife to alight, and De Courcy led the
horse to the hitching-shed. Susan Donnelly was a still blooming
woman of forty; her dress, of the plainest color, was yet of the
richest texture; and her round, gentle, almost timid face looked
forth like a girl's from the shadow of her scoop bonnet. While she
was greeting Abraham Bradbury, the two daughters, Sylvia and Alice,
who had been standing shyly by themselves on the edge of the group
of women, came forward. The latter was a model of the demure
Quaker maiden; but Abraham experienced as much surprise as was
possible to his nature on observing Sylvia's costume. A light-blue
dress, a dark-blue cloak, a hat with ribbons, and hair in curls--
what Friend of good standing ever allowed his daughter thus to
array herself in the fashion of the world?

Henry read the question in Abraham's face, and preferred not to
answer it at that moment. Saying, "Thee must make me acquainted
with the rest of our brethren," he led the way back to the men's
end. When he had been presented to the older members, it was time
for them to assemble in meeting.

The people were again quietly startled when Henry Donnelly
deliberately mounted to the third and highest bench facing them,
and sat down beside Abraham and Simon. These two retained,
possibly with some little inward exertion, the composure of their
faces, and the strange Friend became like unto them. His hands
were clasped firmly in his lap; his full, decided lips were set