He would ask his mother to send over something to eat while they were getting settled. The neighbors always did that when folks moved into the neighborhood. She was standing at the door now. It was certain she was older than he first thought--she must be seventeen, or even older; he would be nineteen in October. She certainly wanted to speak to him; she didn’t exactly beckon to him, but she sort of waited as if she expected him to come. He laid the bag of potatoes down and vaulted over the fence. He stumbled awkwardly as he landed, and that was so ridiculous. She had a pretty, bright smile when he looked up after brushing off the soft dirt from his knees; it wasn’t a mocking smile either, only such a happy smile, as if she knew he would come. He stepped over the narrow bed of rhubarb, between the currant bushes, and then she was gone. Probably she had gone to call her mother. He waited a whole minute or more on the steps. Yes, she could have seen him quite well from there, better than he had seen her, because the sun had been in his eyes, and she was sitting in the shade. She did not come out, and so he pushed the door open a little wider--she had left it almost half open. The hallway was dark at first, and it was not furnished. There was not even a mat at the door. Why didn’t she come back? It was so still he could almost hear his heart beat, and besides he was a little embarrassed. He couldn’t go away, and he didn’t know exactly what to do. He knocked on the open door. The sound went all over the house, and the dust where it had been disturbed was making the sunbeam in the kitchen beyond look like a regular golden beam. No one answered, but he heard a footstep in the sitting-room; he walked in; there was no one there; he grew curious, and his embarrassment wore off, for the girl was evidently more shy than he. He went through the living-room. There was no furniture there either, but there were lots of flying dust particles, so that somebody had evidently just been through. He opened the door into the kitchen; nobody was there, but the stairs creaked ever so slightly. She was going up-stairs. He went swiftly into the hall, but could see no one. He walked clumsily up-stairs; how much more noise he made than she had. They would probably have a rag carpet on them later. Who were they anyway, and why did she run away from him? The rooms up-stairs were connected by doors. He followed the footsteps from one room to another. At the end of the back one, which had a sloping roof on one side, there were very narrow stairs which led to the attic. The door at the foot of the stairs closed right before him. He was angry, and spoke up: ‘Does anyone here want to speak to me?’ There was no answer, and again he seemed to hear his own heart-beats. He stood quite still, wondering whether to go away or to follow the footsteps, which he heard faintly overhead.