"It was a beautiful, cool, sunny day; and after I left the
Cemetery I walked along the well remembered road toward
Spring Pond. It is not very far, but I had never been any
nearer to it than the Cemetery since my sisters and I went
away.

"Such odd sensations came over me as I walked alone there
amid familiar scenes: and, curiously, everything seemed to
have shrunk to miniature size--houses, fields, distances all
seemed much less impressive. But the Bay was intensely blue;
the grasses and reeds in the salt meadows were already tipped
with a golden colour here and there; flocks of purple grackle
and red-winged blackbirds rose, drifted, and settled,
chattering and squealing among the cat-tails just as they
used to do when I was a child; and the big, slow-sailing
mouse-hawks drifted and glided over the pastures, and when
they tipped sideways I could see the white moon-spot on their
backs, just as I remembered to look for it when I was a
little, little girl.

"And the odours, Clive! How the scent of the August fields,
of the crisp salt hay, seemed to grip at my heart!--all the
subtle, evanescent odours characteristic of that part of Long
Island seemed to gather, blend, and exhale for my particular
benefit that afternoon.

"The old tavern appeared to me so much smaller, so much more
weather-beaten and shabby than my recollection of it. The
sign still hung there--'Hotel Greensleeve'--and as I walked
by it I looked up at the window of my mother's room. The
blinds were closed; nobody appeared to be around. I don't
know why, Clive, but it seemed to me that I must go in for a
moment and take one more look at my mother's room.... I am
glad I did. There was nobody to stop me. I went up the stairs
on tiptoe and opened her door, and looked in. She was there,
sewing.