Everything in the room breathed contentment. The kettle hummed and sputtered, sending forth its white cloud of steam, while the kitchen clock ticked off the pleasant moments.
The man was deeply interested in the weekly paper for which he had just driven to the office, but he occasionally stopped to take a bite out of a large red Baldwin apple that he found in a dish on the table near by.
He was so engrossed in local items that he did not hear his wife's excited question until it was repeated for the second time.
"John, what is that?" she asked.
"What is what?" he replied, laying down his paper that he might give his full attention to her inquiry.
"That noise on the piazza," she answered in a low tone.
"I don't hear any noise," returned the man; but almost as he spoke a slow shambling step made the floor-boards of the old piazza creak and a heavy hand was laid upon the door.
"Hello, who's there?" asked the man, for he could think of no one who would be calling at the hour of nine, which is really late in a farming community.
But there was no reply to his inquiry, only the sound of a heavy step moving up and down in front of the door.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" repeated the young farmer in an irritated tone, for he was both surprised and annoyed by the intrusion.