"The talk broke up after that, like somebody had said something in bad taste; and we conversed around in groups, and done our best to make 'way with the refreshments. And Insley set talking to Mis' Eleanor Emmons, the new widow, lately moved in. "About Mis' Emmons the social judgment of Friendship Village was for the present hanging loose. This was partly because we didn't understand her name. "'My land, was her husband a felon or a thief or what that she don't use his name?' everybody asked everybody. 'What's she stick her own name in front of his last name like that for? Sneaked out of usin' his Christian name as soon as his back was turned, _I_ call it,' said some. 'My land, I'd use my dead husband's forename if it was Nebuchadnezzar. _My_ opinion, we'd best go slow till she explains herself.' "But I guess Insley had more confidence. "'You'll help, I know?' I heard him say to Mis' Emmons. "'My friend,' she says back, 'whatever I can do I'll do. It's a big job you're talking about, you know.' "'It's _the_ big job,' says Insley, quiet. "Pretty soon Mis' Toplady got up on her feet, drawing her shawl up her back. "'Well,' she says, 'whatever you decide, count on me--I'll always do for chinkin' in. I've got to get home now and set my bread or it won't be up till day _after_ to-morrow. Ready, Timothy? Good night all.' "She went towards the door, Timothy following. But before they got to it, it opened, and somebody come in, at the sight of who Mis' Toplady stopped short and the talk of the rest of us fell away. No stranger, much, comes to Friendship Village without our knowing it, and to have a stranger walk unbeknownst into the very lecture-room of the First Church was a thing we never heard of, without he was a book agent or a travelling man. "Here, though, was a stranger--and such a stranger. She was so unexpected and so dazzling that it shot through my head she was like a star, taking refuge from all the roughness and the rain outside--a star, so it come in my head, using up its leisure on a cloudy night with peepin' in here and there to give out brightness anyway. The rough, dark cheviot that the girl wore was sort of like a piece of storm-cloud clinging about that brightness--a brightness of wind-rosy face and blowy hair, all uncovered. She stood on the threshold, holding her wet umbrella at arm's length out in the entry. "'I beg your pardon. Are you ready, Aunt Eleanor?' she asked. "Mis' Eleanor Emmons turned and looked at her. "'Robin!' she says. 'Why, you must be wet through.' "'I'm pretty wet,' says the girl, serene, 'I'm so messy I won't come in. I'll just stop out here on the steps. Don't hurry.' "'Wait a minute,' Mis' Emmons says. 'Stay where you are then, please, Robin, and meet these people.'