I was too eager to prove my theories, and too strongly under the
presentiment that my hour of destiny had come, to rest, and so gladly
welcomed the tinkle of the dinner-bell.

The apparent mistress of my fate had not diminished her unconscious
power by exchanging her Sunday-morning costume for a light muslin,
that revealed more of her white throat than the strict canons of her
sect would warrant perhaps, but none too much for maidenly modesty and
artistic effect. Indeed, the gown harmonized with her somewhat worldly
hat. I regarded these tendencies as good omens, however, felicitating
myself with the thought that while her Quaker antecedents would always
give to her manner and garb a beautiful simplicity, they would not
trammel her taste with arbitrary custom. Though now more clearly
satisfied that the beauty of her full face by no means equalled that
of her profile, I was still far more than content with a perfection of
features that sustained a rigorous scrutiny.

"Richard Morton," said Mrs. Yocomb, "let me make thee acquainted with
Emily Warren."

I turned and bowed to a young woman, who seemed very colorless and
unattractive to my brief glance, compared with the radiant creature
opposite me. It would appear that I made no very marked impression on
her either, for she chatted with little Zillah, who sat beyond her,
and with Reuben across the table, making no effort to secure my
attention.

If Mrs. Yocomb's powers as a spiritual provider were indicated by the
table she had spread for us, the old meetinghouse should be crowded
every Sunday, on the bare possibility that she might speak. From the