In a still life like hers, everything has its interest. From almost unconsciously watching the progress of such portions of the building as the irregularities of the ground made visible, Catharine began to wonder who this pretty residence was for, and how its inmates might hereafter affect her own singular life. It was the only dwelling in sight, and threatened to encroach somewhat upon the isolation of her home. Thus the subject became one of peculiar interest to her; while the old people now and then wondered who was building a house so near them, and if their close neighborhood to strangers might not interfere with the entire freedom which poor Elsie now enjoyed. Elsie herself heard the conversation regarding this new house, with wild attention. It seemed to startle her, and she murmured some vague comments as the others conversed, which betrayed a degree of unrest and excitement, that filled the good old people with fresh anxiety. At length, in the month of June, just when the roses were in their richest flush of beauty, the workmen seemed to have completed their task. No more sounds came on the wind to remind the family that human life was so near. The glaring freshness of unpainted wood was toned down into a warm, gray tint, scarcely visible beyond the tall elms and fruit thickets that covered the intervening grounds. From any effect it had upon Catharine’s life, the house might never have existed; it was a pretty object in the distance, nothing more; and yet it always gave her a faint pang when she looked that way. The same strange sensation occasioned by her husband’s picture seemed in some way associated with this house; yet it was perfectly new, and had no possible connection with her or hers more than the forest-trees that had supplied the timbers. One afternoon the family were all gathered in the common sitting-room, loitering about the tea-table, till twilight stole on, and the air was heavy with falling dew. Elsie was sitting as usual at her mother’s feet, looking vaguely up to her face, and smiling that wan, hollow smile, that had neither intelligence nor warmth, and yet was so grateful to the gentle old mother. Mr. Ford had been dreamingly reading the religious paper, which brought his weekly allowance of literature; but as the golden dusk stole on, he laid the venerated sheet upon the table, and was serenely reflecting over its contents. Catharine sat by the window, restless, and with a vague feeling of expectation, the more remarkable because no guests were ever invited to the lone dwelling, and because her reason told her that this impulsive feeling, that some one interested in her was coming, must be perfectly groundless. Still she sat wistfully gazing out into the dusk. Every sound, if but the fluttering of a bird upon its nest, made her start. She went forth in imagination into the world again, and mixed in the great drama of life, from which she had so long absented herself.