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“They’d never let me’s much as git a look at ’em,” complained Mrs. Forder. “Folks got awful stories a-goin’ one time. I’ve heard it said, an’ it allays creeped me cold all over, that there was somethin’ come an’ lived with ’em–a kind o’ black shadder, a cobweb kind o’ a man-shape that followed ’em about the house an’ made a third to them; but they got hardened to it theirselves, only they was afraid ‘t would follow if they went anywheres from home. You don’t believe no such piece o’ nonsense?–But there, I’ve asked ye times enough before.”

“They’d got shadders enough, poor creatur’s,” said Mrs. Downs with reserve. “Wasn’t no kind o’ need to make ’em up no spooks, as I know on. Well, here’s these young folks a-startin’; I wish ’em well, I’m sure. She likes him with his one hand better than most gals likes them as has a good sound pair. They looked prime happy; I hope no curse won’t foller ’em.”

The friends stopped again–poor, short-winded bodies–on the crest of the low hill and turned to look at the wide landscape, bewildered by the marvelous beauty and the sudden flood of golden sunset light that poured out of the western sky. They could not remember that they had ever observed the wide view before; it was like a revelation or an outlook towards the celestial country, the sight of their own green farms and the countryside that bounded them. It was a pleasant country indeed, their own New England: their petty thoughts and vain imaginings seemed futile and unrelated to so fair a scene of things. But the figure of a man who was crossing the meadow below looked like a malicious black insect. It was an old man, it was Enoch Holt; time had worn and bent him enough to have satisfied his bitterest foe. The women could see his empty coat-sleeve flutter as he walked slowly and unexpectantly in that glorious evening light.