The young girl stood quiet and unseen behind the trunk of a large walnut tree, its leaves and branches scarred on one side by a recent fire. Her demeanor and even her clothing would have indicated to a careful observer that she led a relatively protected life in a family of modest means. Although concealed, she didn’t appear to be ill at ease, but quite sure of herself. Her high-topped shoes were polished but plain, like new ones designed for a long life, and her black dress was of good quality but without frills of any kind. She wore a bonnet that only partially concealed her thick and somewhat unruly hair, most of it twisted into a tight bun on the back of her head. Hers was almost but not quite the same as clothing worn by the many Quaker families in Philadelphia.

From her vantage point on the edge of a side street among modest houses and shops, she could survey most of a small vacant lot—or one that was almost empty. There were the remnants of a burned house, its outline delineated by a rim of scorched weeds and grass. The lone chimney was standing and some of the foundation pillars were still visible, flat rocks only partially held together by blackened mortar. When the unoccupied house had burned the previous month, the neighbors had been successful in limiting the blaze to the one structure, largely because the nearest home was twenty feet away.

There was a boy working just beyond where the house had stood. She knew his name was Ethan, and that his father was Samuel Pratt, the neighborhood shoemaker. Recently she had volunteered to carry her father’s shoes to be repaired and was disappointed when only Mr. Pratt had been in the shop. This was the third time she had come to watch Ethan, and she felt somewhat guilty. Her parents would have been surprised to see her doing anything devious or surreptitious. She was not afraid or embarrassed, but only reluctant to confront another person her age, and especially the boy she was watching.