The Pritchard family, her temporary hosts, summed up for her the human life of the valley.  There were two children, inarticulate, vacant-faced country children of eight and ten, out from morning till night in the sunny, upland pastures, but who could think of nothing but how many quarts of berries they had picked and what price could be exacted for them.  There was Gran’ther Pritchard, a doddering, toothless man of seventy-odd, and his wife, a tall, lean, lame old woman with a crutch who sat all through the mealtimes speechlessly staring at the stranger, with faded gray eyes.  There was Mr. Pritchard and his son Joel, gaunt Yankees, toiling with fierce concentration to “get the crops in” after a late spring.  Finally there was Mrs. Pritchard, worn and pale, passing those rose-colored spring days grubbing in her vegetable garden.  And all of them silent, silent as the cattle they resembled.  There had been during the first few days of her week’s stay some vague attempts at conversation, but Virginia was soon aware that they had not the slightest rudiments of a common speech.

A blight was on even those faint manifestations of the esthetic spirit which they had not killed out of their bare natures.  The pictures in the house were bad beyond belief, and the only flowers were some petunias, growing in a pot, carefully tended by Grandma Pritchard.  They bore a mass of blossoms of a terrible magenta, like a blow in the face to anyone sensitive to color.  It usually stood on the dining-table, which was covered with a red cloth.  “Crimson!  Magenta!  It is no wonder they are lost souls!” cried the girl to herself.

On the last day of her week, even as she was trying to force down some food at the table thus decorated, she bethought herself of her old haunt of desolate peace on the mountainside.  She pushed away from the table with an eager, murmured excuse, and fairly ran out into the gold and green of the forest, a paradise lying hard by the pitiable little purgatory of the farmhouse.  As she fled along through the clean-growing maple-groves, through stretches of sunlit pastures, azure with bluets, through dark pines, red-carpeted by last year’s needles, through the flickering, shadowy-patterned birches, she cried out to all this beauty to set her right with the world of her fellows, to ease her heart of its burden of disdainful pity.

But there was no answer.

She reached the deserted clearing breathless, and paused to savor its slow, penetrating peace.  The white birches now almost shut the house from view; the barn had wholly disappeared.  From the finely proportioned old doorway of the house protruded a long, grayed, weather-beaten tuft of hay.  The last utilitarian dishonor had befallen it.  It had not even its old dignity of vacant desolation.  She went closer and peered inside.  Yes, hay, the scant cutting from the adjacent old meadows, had been piled high in the room which had been the gathering-place of the forgotten family life.  She stepped in and sank down on it, struck by the far-reaching view from the window.  As she lay looking out, the silence was as insistent as a heavy odor in the air.