The Green Door by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

She looked sharply at the grass beside the step to see if any had fallen there. After the currants were picked she sat on the back door-step and stemmed them, collecting the stems carefully in her apron, and afterwards throwing them into the hen-coop. Then she went into the garden with a little blue crockery bowl, to pick some currants for her tea. Louisa tied a green apron round her waist, and got out a flat straw hat with a green ribbon. Louisa Ellis could not remember that ever in her life she had mislaid one of these little feminine appurtenances, which had become, from long use and constant association, a very part of her personality. Now she quilted her needle carefully into her work, which she folded precisely, and laid in a basket with her thimble and thread and scissors. She had been peacefully sewing at her sitting-room window all the afternoon. This soft diurnal commotion was over Louisa Ellis also. There seemed to be a gentle stir arising over everything for the mere sake of subsidence - a very premonition of rest and hush and night.

Somewhere in the distance cows were lowing and a little bell was tinkling now and then a farm-wagon tilted by, and the dust flew some blue-shirted laborers with shovels over their shoulders plodded past little swarms of flies were dancing up and down before the peoples’ faces in the soft air.

There was a difference in the look of the tree shadows out in the yard.

It was late in the afternoon, and the light was waning.

The Green Door by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman