He ate and drank in his own house like a guest of state at a feast; he drove his fine sorrel in his sulky like a war-horse in a chariot.

Once, when walking to meeting on an icy day, his feet went from under him, and he sat down suddenly; but even his fall seemed to have something majestic and solemn and Scriptural about it.

Nobody laughed.
Doctor Prescott expelling this little boy from his south door had the impressiveness of a priest of Bible times expelling an interloper from the door of the Temple.

Jerome almost fell when he reached the ground, but collected himself after a staggering step or two as the door shut behind him.
The doctor's sulky was drawn up before the door, and Jake Noyes stood by the horse's head.

The horse sprang aside--he was a nervous sorrel--when Jerome flew down the steps, and Jake Noyes reined him up quickly with a sharp "Whoa!" As soon as he recovered his firm footing, Jerome started to run out of the yard; but Jake, holding the sorrel's bridle with one hand, reached out the other to his collar and brought him to a stand.
"Hullo!" said he, hushing his voice somewhat and glancing at the door.