HE saw her first on a Wednesday in May. She was sitting on the back door-step, doing nothing but just watching him plow. It looked as if that was what she was doing, so he tried to seem a little more unconscious than he had, when he really was unconscious, and every time he turned at the end of the furrow he glanced up at her from under his soft felt hat, which he wore pulled low over his eyes. She sat still, and he plowed ten furrows; the field was small; the apple-trees were in blossom, but the air was cool. He thought she would go in soon, but she sat with her hands idly in her lap. He had never seen a girl sit still for so long before; what was she waiting for? It seemed as if she wanted to speak to him, but that could not be. Who was she, anyhow? He didn’t know anybody lived in the house; they must have moved in very lately, maybe yesterday, and maybe she really did want to ask him something; perhaps they hadn’t brought any potatoes with them—could she want to ask him if he had any to sell? Perhaps she was lonesome; but a boy couldn’t go and talk to a girl just because she looked lonesome. How slim she was, and she didn’t look a bit like the Legget girls, who lived in the white house at the Crossing. How pretty the house looked with someone in it; he liked a brown house best anyway; it was a pity his mother had taken a notion to paint their own house white—it never had been the same to him since then.

Now the girl, whoever she was, was going in. No, she was just standing up to see him better; how queer! She was more slender than he first had thought, and foreign-looking, too, with black hair and eyes, and her hair was braided in two long braids—it made her look young; how old was she, anyway? He had plowed now till he was almost opposite to her door, and only three apple-trees distant. If she sat there till he plowed to the corner of her garden he would say ‘Good-afternoon.’

He plowed till he was within two furrows of the corner. He had not looked up at the end of the last furrow, and now he was turning again towards her. She was gone.

Thursday, he carried out the potatoes to plant. It was warmer than yesterday, and the south wind was blowing off the apple-blossoms. They fell from her garden into the furrows on his land, and he dropped the potatoes into pink and white rifts. He looked almost every minute to see her come out of the door.

The house was very still, and they had not taken the boards down that had been nailed over the pantry windows to keep the storms from breaking the glass, and there were no curtains up. They couldn’t have been there long. Probably there was nobody but her and her mother, and they would have to wait for some neighbor to come in and help them take those boards down, and start the pump working. He would wash up after supper, and go over there. He could help them a lot before dark.

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.

He followed the footsteps; the stairs were steep, and opened into the middle of the long garret, and nobody was in sight. But the agitated dust danced in the sunbeam which streamed way across the room. It was very clean up there—no lumber of any sort, no old furniture, no old trunks, no old papers or such litter—and it was as quiet as death. His heart beat now with excitement, not embarrassment. His quick eye saw that there was no other room, and that there was no place to hide except behind the chimney that ran through the front part and up through the roof. He walked over to it. It seemed a long walk, it was so quiet and queer, and he felt as if he were being watched.

There was no one behind the chimney. He went all around it.

Now he felt quite himself again. He had been a fool, or else asleep, and he put his foot on the first stair, saying aloud ‘Good-bye,’ which meant ‘good-bye to my foolishness.’

A timid voice said, ‘Oh, don’t go!’

He stood with his lips parted, his damp hair clinging to his forehead where his cap had pressed it, his head bent forward to listen, every nerve tingling.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘Close beside you, here at your right hand.’

‘I don’t see you.’

‘No, you can’t see me now.’

‘Why can’t I see you?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the voice sighed.

‘Was that you I saw yesterday on the steps?’

‘Yes, I was watching you plow, and I wanted to speak to you.’

‘I knew it, and that is why I came in. Can’t I see you?’

Again the sigh blew across his face.

‘What do you mean by my not being able to see you?’

‘Can you see me?’

‘No, not now; but I saw you at the door, before you came up here.’

‘But you could not hear me then.’

‘I hear you now.’

‘Yes, but you do not see me.’

‘Can’t you be seen and heard too at the same time?’

Again a soft piteous sigh. ‘I want to know who you are, and why you can’t be seen and heard too.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I must go now, if you won’t let me see you.’

‘Oh, don’t go!’

He stood irresolute; he was not one bit frightened, only he was aching to see her of the voice, and to know who she was. Then he asked:

‘Can’t I ever see you again?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said the voice, and it seemed to vibrate all around him, a dancing voice full of joy and hope.

He smiled with it, and then there was laughter all around him, moving here and there gaily.

‘I want to see you now.’

‘Then I can’t talk with you any more.’ ‘Never mind, let me see you.’

A sigh, a soft moaning sound, a rustle as of garments, and she stood before him.

He had not been embarrassed by the voice, but now his heart began to beat, and he said, quite as he had meant to when he first went into the house:

‘Is there anything I can do to help you settle?’

That was an absurd thing to say to this slim, wistful girl, who stood looking at him. It was the natural boy asserting itself against the unknown, the unexpected.

Then he turned his head and looked into her eyes. They were the sweetest eyes he had ever seen. He had never before looked deep into any human eyes.

Then, home and circumstances, field and world, all became to him a dream, and only this maiden without a voice, this voice floating into empty air, became to him his world.

Outside, the apple-blossoms floated down from her trees to his land, the potatoes lay unplanted. Vainly that night the cows waited for his hand to milk them. The real had become the shadow; he was in a new world. Illusive voice! vanishing shape to deal with!

Within, a wild delicious hope that he, he might at last unite voice and shape.

So from the plough-boy is the poet born.