The earth and sky and all the familiar features of the village had that effect of mystery and unreality which some conditions of the atmosphere bring to pass.
A strangely keen sense of the unstability of all earthly things, of the shadows of the tomb, of the dreamy half-light of the world, came over Eben Merritt, and his generous impulse seemed suddenly the only lantern to light his wavering feet.

"I'll do what I can for the poor little chap, come what will," he muttered, and strode on to Doctor Prescott's house.
Just before he reached it a horse and sulky turned into the yard, driven rapidly from the other direction.

Squire Eben hastened his steps, and reached the south house door before the doctor entered.

He was just ascending the steps, his medicine-case in hand, when he heard his name called, and turned around.
"I want a word with you before you go in, doctor," called the Squire, as he came up.
"Good-evening, Squire Merritt," returned the doctor, bowing formally on his vantage-ground of steps, but his voice bespoke a spiritual as well as material elevation.
"I would like a word with you," the Squire said again.
"Walk into the house." "No, I won't come in, as long as I've met you.

I have company at home.