As for himself, although he did not live in the country he was, at that time, aware of something quite tremendous going on. Wagons arrived bringing things to his father's house. On Saturdays a farm woman, who drove an old grey horse, came to the front door and knocked. She was bringing the Western their weekly supply of butter and eggs and often a chicken for the Sunday dinner. John Webster's mother went to the door to meet her and the child ran along, clinging to his mother's skirts.

The farm woman came into the house and sat up stiffly in a chair in the parlour while her basket was being emptied and while the butter was being taken out of its stone jar. The boy stood with his back to the wall in a corner and studied her. Nothing was said.

What strange hands she had, so unlike his mother's hands, that were soft and white. The farm woman's hands were brown and the knuckles were like the bark-covered knobs that sometimes grew on the trunks of trees. They were hands to take hold of things, to take hold of things firmly.

After the men from the country had come and had put the things in the bins in the cellar it was fine to go down there in the afternoon when one had come home from school. Outside the leaves were all coming off the trees and everything looked bare. One felt a little sad and almost frightened at times and the visits to the cellar were reassuring. The rich smell of things, fragrant and strong smells! One got an apple out of one of the bins and stood eating it. In a far corner there were the dark bins where the pumpkins and squashes were buried in straw and everywhere, along the walls, were the glass jars of fruit his mother had put up. How many of them, what a plentitude of everything. One could eat and eat and still there would be plenty.

At night sometimes, when one had gone up stairs and got into bed, one thought of the cellar and of the farm woman and the farm men who had brought the things. Outside the house it was dark and a wind was blowing. Soon there would be winter and snow and skating. The farm woman with the strange, strong-looking hands had driven the grey horse along the street on which the Webster house stood, and around a corner. One had stood at a window down stairs and had watched her out of sight. She had gone off into some mysterious place, spoken of as the country. How big was the country and how far away was it? Had she got there yet? It was night now and very dark. The wind was blowing. Was she still driving the grey horse on and on, the reins held in her strong brown hands?

The boy had got into bed and had pulled the covers up about him. His mother came into the room and after kissing him went away taking his lamp. He was safe in the house. Near him, in another room, his father and mother slept. Only the country woman, with the strong hands, was now out there alone in the night. She was driving the grey horse on and on into the darkness, into the strange place from which came all of the good, rich-smelling things, now tucked away in the cellar under the house.