LOIS When I came to the log house by the Spring Waiontha, lantern in hand and my packet tucked beneath my arm, it was twilight, and the starless skies threatened rain.

Road and field and forest were foggy and silent; and I thought of the first time I had ever set eyes on Lois, in the late afternoon stillness which heralded a coming storm.
I had with me, as I say, a camp lantern which enabled me to make my way through the thicket to the Spring Waiontha.

Not finding her there, I retraced my steps and crossed the charred and dreary clearing to the house of logs.
No light burned within; doubtless this widow woman was far too poor to afford a light of any sort.

But my lantern still glimmered, and I went up to the splintered door and rapped.
Lois opened it, her knitting gathered in her hand, and stood aside for me to enter.
At first, so dusky was the room that I perceived no other occupant beside ourselves.

Then Lois said: "Mrs.Rannock, Mr.Loskiel, of whom I spoke at supper, is to be made known to you." Then first I saw a slight and ghostly figure rise, take shape in the shadows, and move slowly into my lantern's feeble beams----a frail and pallid woman, who made her reverence as though dazed, and uttered not a word.
Lois whispered in my ear: "She scarcely seems to know she is alive, since Cherry Valley.