The face was an ordinary one.  A farmer’s wife, even of the well-to-do, fore-handed sort, had many cares, and often heavy labors.  Fifty years ago, inventive science had given no assistance to domestic labor, and all household work was done in the hardest manner.  This woman might have had her day of being good-looking, possibly.  But the face, even by moonlight, was now swarthy with exposure; the once round arm was dark and sinewy; and the plainly parted hair was confined and concealed by a blue-and-white handkerchief knotted under her chin.  The forehead was freely lined; and the lips opened, when they did open, on dark, unfrequent teeth.  These observations Swan made as he moved forward to speak to her; for there was no special expressiveness or animation to relieve the literal stamp of her features.

“Can you tell me, Madam,—­hem!—­who lives now on this place?  It used to belong to Colonel Fox, I think.”

He called her “Madam” at a venture, though she might, for all he could see, be a “help” on the farm.  But it wasn’t Cely, nor yet Dinah.

At the sound of his voice the woman’s whole expression changed.  Her quick eyes fell back into a look of dreamy inquiry and softness.  She dropped her pails to the ground, and stood, fenced in by the hoop, like a statue of bewilderment,—­if such a statue could be carved.

Was his face transfigured in the moonlight, as she slowly gathered up old memories, and compared the form before her with the painted shadows of the past?  She answered not a word, but clasped her hands tightly together, and bent her head to listen again to the voice.

“I say! good woman!”—­this time with a raised tone, for he thought she might be deaf,—­“is not this the old Fox farm?  Please tell me who lives here now.  The family are dead, I think.”

The woman opened her clenched hands and spread the palms outward and upward.  Then, in a low tone of astonishment, she said,—­

“Good Lord o’ mercy! if it a’n’t him!”

He moved nearer, and put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her.

“To be sure it is, my good soul.  Don’t be frightened.  I give you my word, I am myself, and nobody else.  And pray, now, who may you be?  Do you live here?” he added, with a short laugh.

He addressed her jocosely; for he saw the poor frightened thing would never give him the information he wanted, unless he could contrive to compose her.  It was odd, too, that he should frighten everybody so.  Dorcas had hurried off like a lapwing.

“Swan Day!” said the woman, softly.

“That is my name, Goody!  But I am ashamed to say, I don’t remember you.  Pray, did you live here when I went away?”

“Yes,” said she, softly again, and this time looking into his eyes.

“Tell me, then, if you can tell me, whose hands this farm fell into?  Who owns the place?  Has it gone out of the family?  Where is Dorcas Fox?”