And there for the time being the episode of the little image venders ended.
Twelve, perhaps it was thirteen, years passed.

Addison, Halstead, Theodora and Ellen went their various ways in life, and of the group of young folks at the old farm I alone was left there.

The old Squire was not able now to do more than oversee the work and to give me advice from his large experience of the past.
One day, late in October, we were in the apple house getting the crop of winter apples ready for market--Baldwins, Greenings, Blue Pearmains, Russets, Orange Apples, Arctic Reds--about four hundred barrels of them.
We were sorting the apples carefully and putting the "number ones" in fresh, new barrels.
It was near noon, and grandmother Ruth had come out to say that our midday meal would soon be ready.

She remained for a few moments and was counting the barrels we had put up that forenoon, when the doorway darkened behind her, and, looking up, we saw a stranger standing there--a well-dressed, rather handsome young man with dark hair and dark moustache.

He was looking at us inquiringly, smilingly, almost timidly, I thought.
"How do you do ?" I said.