Transition had been the part of the generation before him.

In him the democratic impulse was no longer fitful and uncertain, but had expanded into a stable and indestructible purpose.
Before starting the wheel, which he did by thrusting his arm through the window and lifting the gate on the mill-race, Abel took up a broom, made of sedges bound crudely together, and swept the smooth bare floor, which was polished like that of a ballroom by the sacks of meal that had been dragged back and forth over the boards.

From the rafters above, long pale cobwebs were blown gently in the draught between the door and window, and when the mill had started, the whole building reverberated to the slow revolutions of the wheel outside.
The miller had poured Solomon Hatch's grist into the hopper, and was about to turn the wooden crank at the side, when a shadow fell over the threshold, and Archie Revercomb appeared, with a gun on his shoulder and several fox-hounds at his heels.
"You'll have to get Abner to help you dress that mill-rock, Abel," he said, "I'm off for the morning.

That's a good pup of yours, but he's old enough to begin learning." With the inherited idleness of the Revercombs, he combined the headstrong impulses and dogged obstinacy of his mother's stock, yet because of his personal charm, these faults were not only tolerated but even admired by his family.
"You're always off in the mornings when there's work to be done," replied Abel, "but for heaven's sake, bring home a string of hares to put ma into a better humour.

She whets her tongue on me and I'll be hanged if it's right." "She never used to do it till you went over to Mr.Mullen's church and fell in love with Molly Merryweather.