Toward the centre of the village his ground ran only to a matter of ten or twelve yards from the kitchen door.  There was just room for the little garden between house and fence.  On that side his nearest neighbor was distant the width of several untenanted lots.  On the other side, however, there was more space.  There were some shade-trees here, and around one of them, an ancient elm, ran a wooden seat, much carved and lettered.  The boundary here was a continuation of the lilac hedge which fronted the street, and in it was an arched gate leading to the next yard.  But from the gate all Wade could discern was the end of a white house and a corner of a brick chimney some forty yards distant; trees and shrubbery hid more of his neighbor’s estate.

Wade returned to the front of the house, hands in his pockets, a tune on his lips.  He had taken his valise from the back of the carryall before the driver, who was half asleep, discovered his presence.  He blinked and dropped his feet from the dashboard.

“You all ready?” he asked.

Wade shook his head.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said.  “I’m going to stay awhile.”

III.

That was a stirring afternoon in Eden Village.  Wade’s advent was like the dropping of a stone into the centre of a quiet pool.  Prout’s Store was the centre of the pool, and it was there that the splash and upheaval occurred, and from there the waves of commotion circled and spread to the farthest margins.  By supper time it was known from one length of Main Street to the other that the Craig place was tenanted again.  As to who the tenant was rumor was vague and indefinite.  But before bedtime even that point was definitely settled, Zenas Prout 2nd having kept the store open a full half-hour later than usual to accommodate delayed seekers after knowledge.

It was a rather stirring afternoon for Wade, too.  First there was a visit to the store in the carryall for the purchase of supplies.  Mr. Prout, who combined the duties of merchant with those of postmaster and express agent, was filling out a requisition for postal supplies when Wade entered.  Poking his pen behind his ear, he stepped out from behind the narrow screen of lock-boxes and greeted the visitor.

“Afternoon, sir.  You found the house all right?”

“Yes, thanks.”  Wade drew forth a pencil and tore off a piece of wrapping paper.

“Sort of out of repairs, of course, seem’ it ain’t been lived in for most ten years, not since Mrs. Craig died.  Was you considerin’ purchasin’, sir?”

“Er—­no.”  Wade was writing rapidly on the brown paper.  “The fact is, Mr. Prout, I own the Craig house now.”

“You don’t say?” exclaimed the store-keeper in genuine surprise.  “You ain’t—­surely you ain’t Ed Craig?”

“No, my name’s Herrick.  Ed was a good friend of mine.  We were partners in a mining enterprise in Colorado.  Ed died almost a year ago now; typhoid.”