The laughter waxed louder and longer; the matrons looking
on doubled their broad backs with responsive merriment. It became
like a little bacchanalian rout in a New England field on a summer
afternoon, but they did not know it in their simple hearts.
At six o'clock the mist began to rise, the sunlight streamed through
the trees in slanting golden shafts, long drawn out like organ
chords. The young people gathered up their pails and baskets and went
home, flocking down the road together, calling back farewells to Rose
and William and their mother, who stood in front of the tavern
watching them out of sight.
They were not quite out of sight when they came to Hiram Baxter's
little house, and Silas Berry emerged from the shop door. "Hullo!" he
cried out, and they all stopped, smiling at him with a cordiality
which had in it a savor of apology. Indeed, Thomas Payne had just
remarked, with a hearty chorus of assents, that he guessed the old
man wasn't so bad after all.
Silas advanced towards them; he also was smiling. He fumbled in his
waistcoat pocket, and drew out a roll of paper which he shook out
with trembling fingers. He stepped close to Thomas Payne and extended
it.
"What is it?" asked the young man.
Silas smiled up in his face with the ingenuous smile of a child.
"What is it?" Thomas Payne asked again.
The others crowded around.
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