He had no love for the farm, which had belonged to his father; an old flute, on which his father used to play, was more of a treasure to him.  Often in summer, as day faded, and the dews of night descended; when the clear lights in the valley were set twinkling one by one, leaving the uplands to the winds and stars, Aaron Bade, perched upon his pasture bars, piped to the faintly glowing sky his awkward thoughts and clumsy feelings.

In the morning he took leave of his wife, and with his hoe slung over his shoulder, made his way down to the cornfield.  There, seated upon a stone, he saw himself in Attleboro again, pictured to himself the countryside beyond, and before noon, was half way round the world, leaving friends behind him in every land.  Then, with a sigh, he would go in among the corn with his weeder, only to stand dreaming at every rustle of wind, seeing, in his mind, the smoke of distant cities, hearing, in fancy, the booming of foreign seas.

His wife was no longer a young woman.  As a girl she had also had hopes for herself.  It seemed to her, when she chose Aaron Bade, that in his company, life would be surprising and delightful.  She expected to see something of the world—­he spoke of it so much.  But she was mistaken.  For Aaron’s travels were all of the mind.  And she soon discovered that the more he talked, the more there remained for her to do.  Thus her hopes died away; between the stove and the chickens, and what with cleaning, washing, sweeping and dusting, she rarely found time nowadays for more than a shake of her head, never very pretty, and at last no longer young, at the thought of what she had looked for, what she had meant to find.  In short, from hopeful girl, Margaret Bade was, sensibly enough, turned practical woman; and when, on clear afternoons, with his work still to do, Aaron would take his flute down into the fields, she did his chores, as well as her own, with the wise remark that after all, they had to be done.

Nevertheless, when the dishes were washed—­when the shadows of evening crept in past the lamp, no longer able to exclude them, she began to feel lonely and sad.  And as the notes of Aaron’s flute mingled with the night sounds, the chirp of crickets, the hum of insects, she felt, rather than thought, “Life is so much spilt milk.  And all that comes of fancies, is Aaron’s flute, playing down there in the pasture.”

It was to this family that Mr. Jeminy came in the chilly dawn, on his way, apparently, to the ends of the earth, and, after breakfast, fell asleep in the hayloft, leaving them both gaping with pleasure and curiosity.  For he came, Aaron had to admit, like a tramp; but spoke, Margaret thought, like the Gospels.  “He’s from roundabout,” she said; “I hope he doesn’t think to try and sell us anything.  Men with something to sell always talk like the minister first.”

But Aaron, with his mind on the far off world across the smoky autumn hills, was pained at such a suggestion.  “You’re wrong, mother,” he said solemnly.  “No, sirree.  He’s not from roundabout.  And he’s no common tramp either.  He’s come a distance, I believe.”