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.