One August day Mrs. Croom drove with her husband to a distant funeral.

In the afternoon when the sunshine was falling upon the fields of maize, when the wind was busy setting their ribbon-like leaves flapping, and rocking the tree-tops, Ephraim Croom was disturbed in his private room by the blustering entrance of Susannah.

The room was an attic; the windows of the gable looked west; slanting windows in the shingle roof looked north and south.  The room was large and square, spare of furniture, lined with books.  At a square table in the centre sat Ephraim.

When Susannah entered a gust of wind came with her.  The handkerchief folded across her bosom was blown awry.  Her sun-bonnet had slipped back upon her neck; her ringlets were tossed.

“Cousin Ephraim, my aunt has gone; come out and play with me.”  Then she added more disconsolately, “I am lonely; I want you to talk to me, cousin.”

The gust had lifted Ephraim’s papers and shed them upon the floor.  He looked down at them without moving.  Life in a world of thoughts in which his fellows took no interest, had produced in him a singularly undemonstrative manner.

Susannah’s red lips were pouting.  “Come, cousin, I am so tired of myself.”

But Ephraim had been privately accused of amative emotions.  Offended with his mother, mortified he knew not why, uncertain of his own feeling, as scholars are apt to be, he had no wish then but to retire.

“I am too busy, Susianne.”

“Then I will go alone; I will go for a long, long walk by myself.”  She gave her foot a defiant stamp upon the floor.

He looked out of his windows north and south; safer district could not be.  “I do not think it will rain,” he said.

A suspicion of laughter was lurking in his clear quiet eyes, which were framed in heavy brown eyebrows and thick lashes.  Nature, who had stinted this man in physical strength, had fitted him out fairly well as to figure and feature.

Susannah, vexed at his indifference, but fearing that he would retract his unexpected permission, was again in the draught of the open door.

“Perhaps I will walk away, away into the woods and never come back; what then?”

“Indians,” suggested he, “or starvation, or perhaps wolves, Susianne.”

“But I love you for not forbidding me to go, cousin Ephraim.”

The smile that repaid him for his indulgence comforted him for an hour; then a storm arose.

In the meantime Susannah had walked far.  A squatter’s old log-house stood by the green roadside; the wood of the roof and walls was weathered and silver-gray.  Before it a clothes-line was stretched, heaved tent-like by a cleft pole, and a few garments were flapping in the wind, chiefly white, but one was vivid pink and one tawny yellow.