He had twinkling blue eyes, which were half hid under heavy, projecting eyebrows, and shut up tight whenever he laughed.

His hair was long and thin, and white as spun glass.

Altogether, except that he spoke with an unmistakable Yankee twang, and wore unmistakable Yankee clothes, you might have fancied that he was an ancient elf from the Hartz Mountains.
Mercy could not refrain from laughing in his face, as she retreated a few steps towards the piazza, and said,-- "It is I who ought to beg your pardon.

I had no business to be standing stock-still in the middle of the highway like a post." "Sensible young woman! sensible young woman! God bless my soul! don't know your face, don't know your face," said the old gentleman, peering out from under the eaves of his eyebrows, and scrutinizing Mercy as a child might scrutinize a new-comer into his father's house.

One could not resent it, any more than one could resent the gaze of a child.