Abijah Flagg was driving over to Wareham on an errand for old
Squire Winship, whose general chore-boy and farmer's assistant he
had been for some years.

He passed Emma Jane Perkins's house slowly, as he always did. She
was only a little girl of thirteen and he a boy of fifteen or
sixteen, but somehow, for no particular reason, he liked to see
the sun shine on her thick braids of reddish-brown hair. He
admired her china-blue eyes too, and her amiable, friendly
expression. He was quite alone in the world, and he always
thought that if he had anybody belonging to him he would rather
have a sister like Emma Jane Perkins than anything else within
the power of Providence to bestow. When she herself suggested
this relationship a few years later he cast it aside with scorn,
having changed his mind in the interval--but that story belongs
to another time and place.

Emma Jane was not to be seen in garden, field, or at the window,
and Abijah turned his gaze to the large brick house that came
next on the other side of the quiet village street. It might have
been closed for a funeral. Neither Miss Miranda nor Miss Jane
Sawyer sat at their respective windows knitting, nor was Rebecca
Randall's gypsy face to be discerned. Ordinarily that will-o'-the
wispish little person could be seen, heard, or felt wherever she
was.

"The village must be abed, I guess," mused Abijah, as he neared
the Robinsons' yellow cottage, where all the blinds were closed
and no sign of life showed on porch or in shed. "No, 't aint,