men and women, all in their Sunday best, going to make social calls.
In the majority of Stockbridge households, the best clothes, unless
there chanced to be a funeral, were not put on oftener than once a
week, when the recurrence of the Sabbath made their assumption a
religious duty, and on this account it naturally became the custom to
make the evening of that day the occasion of formal social intercourse.
As soon, too, as the gathering twilight afforded some shield to their
secret designs, sundry young men with liberally greased hair, their
arms stiff in the sleeves of the unusual and Sunday coat, their feet,
accustomed to the immediate contact of the soil, encased in well larded
shoes, might have been seen gliding under the shadows of friendly
fences, and along bypaths, with that furtive and hangdog air which,
in all ages, has characterized the chicken-thief and the lover.

In front of the door of Squire Sedgwick's house is drawn up his
travelling carriage, with two fine horses. On the box is Sol, the
coachman, one of the Squire's negro freedmen, whose allegiance to the
Sedgwick family was not in the least shaken by the abolition of
slavery in the state by the adoption of the bill of rights six years
before.

"I dunno noffin bout no Bill Wright," was Sol's final dismissal of the
subject.

"Drive to Squire Woodbridge's house, Sol," said Sedgwick, as he
stepped into the carriage.

Woodbridge was at the gate of his house, apparently about starting on
his usual evening visit to the store, when the carriage drove up.
Sedgwick alighted, and taking the other a little aside, said: