I had been sent up by my employers on a job connected with the big
power-house at Corbury Junction, and a long-drawn carpenters' strike
had so delayed the work that I found myself anchored at
Starkfield-the nearest habitable spot-for the best part of the
winter. I chafed at first, and then, under the hypnotising effect of
routine, gradually began to find a grim satisfaction in the life.
During the early part of my stay I had been struck by the contrast
between the vitality of the climate and the deadness of the
community. Day by day, after the December snows were over, a blazing
blue sky poured down torrents of light and air on the white
landscape, which gave them back in an intenser glitter. One would
have supposed that such an atmosphere must quicken the emotions as
well as the blood; but it seemed to produce no change except that of
retarding still more the sluggish pulse of Starkfield. When I had
been there a little longer, and had seen this phase of crystal
clearness followed by long stretches of sunless cold; when the
storms of February had pitched their white tents about the. devoted
village and the wild cavalry of March winds had charged down to
their support; I began to understand why Starkfield emerged from its
six months' siege like a starved garrison capitulating without
quarter. Twenty years earlier the means of resistance must have been
far fewer, and the enemy in command of almost all the lines of
access between the beleaguered villages; and, considering these
things, I felt the sinister force of Harmon's phrase: "Most of the
smart ones get away." But if that were the case, how could any
combination of obstacles have hindered the flight of a man like
Ethan Frome?

During my stay at Starkfield I lodged with a middle-aged widow
colloquially known as Mrs. Ned Hale. Mrs. Hale's father had been the