There was a pleasant hush all about. The bubbling ecstasy of a bobolink
floated above the grasses of a meadow, and near at hand a wren hopped
about in the alders and chirped dozy notes. Peace and restfulness
brooded. The man at the brook leaned low and thrust his head into the
water and then rose and shook the drops from his thick thatch of brown
hair. He did it with a sort of canine wriggle and smiled at the thought
which came to him.

"A stray dog!" he muttered. "Of as much account--and he'd better forget
the sister of the rose. Here's a good place to put imagination to
sleep--here's a place where all is asleep."

He went on around the curtain of the alders.

There was a big old-fashioned house near at hand. Its walls were
weather-worn, its yard was not tidy. The faded curtains at the windows
hung crookedly. The glass of the panes was dirty. The entire aspect of
the place indicated that there was no woman's hand to make it home. It
was commonplace and uninteresting.

But the front door was flung open suddenly with a screech of rusty
hinges.

Then came backing out of the doorway a very old man--a bent and
wrinkled old man with long white hair which trailed down from under a
broad-brimmed hat. He was dragging a coffin, single-handed. The free
end of the solemn box bumped down the wooden steps with a hollow clatter
that suggested emptiness. There was a woodpile at one side of the yard.
The old man tugged the casket over the litter of chips and dropped the