"Now you polish up those buckles real good, won't you, 'Zekiel? I will say for Fanshaw, you could most see your face in the harness always."
The young fellow addressed rubbed away at the nickel plating good humoredly, although he had heard enough exhortations in the last twenty-four hours to chafe somewhat the spirit of youth. His mother, a large, heavy woman, stood over him, her face full of care.
"It's a big change from driving a grocery wagon to driving a gentleman's carriage, 'Zekiel. I do hope you sense it."
"You'd make a bronze image sense it, mother," answered the young man, smiling broadly. "You might sit and sermonize just as well, mightn't you? Sitting's as cheap as standing,"—he cast a glance around the clean spaces of the barn in search of a chair,—"or if you'd rather go and attend to your knitting, I've seen harness before, you know."
"I'm not sure as you've ever handled a gentleman's harness in your life, 'Zekiel Forbes."
"It's a fact they don't wear 'em much down Boston way."