From the great rooms on either side of the hall, however, came the murmur of conversation, with now and then a silvery break of laughter, like a sudden cascade in an even current.
Flower-decked heads and silken-gleaming shoulders passed between the windows and the light, outlining vividly every line and angle and curve--the keen cut of profiles, the scallops of perked-up lace, the sharp dove-tails of ribbons.

Before one window was upreared the great back and head of a man, still as a statue, yet with the persistency of stillness, of life.
That dogged stiffness, which betrays the utter self-abasement of resticity in fine company, was evident in his pose, even to one coming up the path.

This party at Squire Merritt's was democratic, including many whose only experiences in social gatherings of their neighbors had come through daily labor and worship.

All the young people in Upham had been invited; the Squire's three boon companions, Doctor Prescott and his wife, and the minister and his daughter, were the only elders bidden, since the party was for Lucina.
"The door's open," Elmira whispered, nervously.

"Is it right to knock when the door's open, or walk right in, O Jerome ?" Jerome, for answer, stepped resolutely in, reached the knocker, raised it, and let it fall with a great imperious clang of brass, defying, as it were, his own shyness, like a herald at arms.
The white-clad girls on the stairs turned as with one accord their innocently abashed faces towards the door, then pushed one another on, and into the parlor, with soft titters and whispers.
Squire Eben Merritt's old servant, Hannah, gravely ponderous in purple delaine, with a wide white apron enhancing her great front, came forward from the room in the rear and motioned Jerome and Elmira to the stairs.