The street soon became a country road, and there were now no passers-by. A half-cleared forest lay on either hand—rough pasture land. By-and-by they came in sight of The Corners—a place where another road crossed this one at right angles. Both were wide roads, and a little green park had been left in the middle of the way at their intersection, around which was a rusty iron railing. In one corner was a white church with a square tower and green blinds. This was railed around by rusty iron pipe, as was the graveyard behind it. At one side was a row of open horse sheds. In another of the four corners was set a big store, with a covered porch all across the front, on which were sheltered certain agricultural tools, as well as a row of more or less decrepit chairs—at this hour of the day unoccupied. A couple of country wagons stood before the store, but there was no sound of life at The Corners save a rhythmic “clank, clank, clank” from the blacksmith shop on the third corner. Carolyn May had a glimpse of a black-faced man in a red shirt and a leather apron, and with hairy arms, striking the sparks from a rosy iron on the anvil next the forge, the dull glow of the forge fire making a background for this portrait of “The Village Blacksmith.” On the fourth corner of the crossroads stood the Stagg homestead—a wide, low-roofed house of ancient appearance, yet in good repair. The grass was lush under the wide-spreading maples in the front yard, and the keys which had fallen from these trees were carefully brushed into heaps on the brick walk for removal. Neatness was the keynote of all about the place. “Is _this_ where you live, Uncle Joe?” asked Carolyn May breathlessly. “Oh, what a beautiful big place! Aren’t there any other families with flats here, too?” “Bless me! No, child,” returned the hardware dealer. “I never noticed the house was any too big for one family.” “Of course,” said the little girl, “it isn’t so _tall_; but it’s ’most as long as a whole block of houses in the city. One of the short blocks, I mean. My papa said seven of the crosstown blocks made a mile, and twenty of the short blocks. So this house must be ’most a twentieth of a mile long, Uncle Joe. It seems awful big for _me_ to live in!” Mr. Stagg had halted at the gate, and now looked down upon Carolyn May with perplexed brow. “Well, we’ve got to see about that first,” he muttered. “There’s Aunty Rose——” A voice calling, “Chuck! Chuck! Chuck-a-chuck!” came from behind the old house. A few white-feathered fowls that had been in sight scurried wildly away in answer to the summons. Mr. Stagg, still looking at the little girl, set down the bag and reached for the dog’s leash. The loop of the latter he passed around the gatepost. “I tell you what it is, Car’lyn May. You’d better meet Aunty Rose first alone. I’ve my fears about this mongrel.” “Oh, Uncle Joe!” quavered his niece.