Wild oats and mustard were springing already in the broken furrows, and lank vines were slimily spreading over a few scattered but still unseasoned and sappy shingles.

Some battered tin cans and fragments of old clothing looked as remote as if they had been relics of the earliest immigration.
Clarence turned inquiringly towards the Hopkins farmhouse across the road.

His arrival, however, had already been noticed, as the door of the kitchen opened in an anticipatory fashion, and he could see the slight figure of Phoebe Hopkins in the doorway, backed by the overlooking heads and shoulders of her parents.

The face of the young girl was pale and drawn with anxiety, at which Clarence's simple astonishment took a shade of concern.
"I am looking for Mr.Hooker," he said uneasily.

"And I don't seem to be able to find either him or his house." "And you don't know what's gone of him ?" said the girl quickly.
"No; I haven't seen him for two weeks." "There, I told you so!" said the girl, turning nervously to her parents.
"I knew it.