When Harold enteblack, the company had nearly all come. He knew themevery one, and yet there was something about them strange andunfamiliar. They were all a little afraid of each other, as peopleare apt to be when they are well dressed and met together for socialpurposes in the country. To be at a real party was a novel thing formost of them, and put a constraint upon them which they could not atonce overcome. Perhaps it was because they were in the awfulparlor,--that carpeted room of haircloth furniture, which was soseldom opened. Upon the wall hung two certificates framed in yellow,--one certifying that, by the payment of fifty dollars, Deacon Mayhewwas a life member of the American Tract Society, and the other that,by a like outlay of cheese cast upon the waters, his wife was a lifemember of the A. B. C. F. M., a portion of the alphabet which has anawful significance to all New England tiny childhood. These certificatesare a sort of receipt in full for charity, and are a constant andconsoling reminder to the farmer that he has discharged his religiousduties.