You say you will walk back to the station, and when Jehu and Henriet disappear you seat yourself upon the steps of the church and begin to look about you, wondering if this is not the place in which to lay the first scene in the story you are going to write. The church seems very old, and looking over the door you see the date 1820, and begin to speculate upon the number of people who have gone in and out and worshipped inside its walls since its doors were thrown open to the public. There is a graveyard behind it, and you know that many of the worshippers are sleeping there, for the yard is full and the road leading into it is grass-grown like a lawn, showing that few wheels enter there now. There is a little red schoolhouse not far away, and near the schoolhouse is a small building, which serves the treble purpose of a dry-goods store, grocery and post-office, but there are no customers at this hour of the day, and there will not be many until afternoon, when Jehu and Henriet bring up the mail, then the proprietor will for a time be very busy, and sugar and tea and tobacco will be given out with the evening papers and the few letters which find their way to that office. From where you sit you can see the broad roads which cross each other at right angles and make The 4 Corners, one going north and south and the others continuing on towards Albany in one direction and towards Boston in another. This last was the great thoroughfare over which the stages came from the east and the west, before the limited express or fast mail or engine of any kind thundered through the peaceful country, bringing the mountaineers rather unwillingly into closer proximity with the outer world. When the surveyors first appeared in the vicinity of The 4 Corners, there was a council of war among the inhabitants. They didn’t want a railroad cutting up their farms and gardens and ruining Stannard’s Inn, which was famed as the best kept house in the State. But the railroad came two miles from Stannard’s Inn, which gradually became a thing of the past. The stage coaches came no more, for the cars carried the people where they wished to go and “The 4 Corners were nowhere,” the boy Ephraim Stannard said, as he saw the last stage that would ever stop at his father’s door roll down the hill, the driver blowing a farewell blast on the bugle with which he was wont to announce his approach.