, and began
her three-mile walk to the old homestead, she felt as if some solemn
event in her life were about to happen; her heart beat higher, and
brought about the suffocating feeling of a hand laid upon the throat.
She was a slight creature, with a delicate face and fine black hair. Her
slender body seemed all made for action, and the poise of an assured
motion dwelt in it and wrapped about its angularity like a gracious
charm. She was walking down a lane, her short skirts brushed by the
morning dew. She chose to go 'cross lots, not because in this case it
was nearer than the road, but because it seemed impossible to go another
way. Yet never in her life had she seen less of the outward garment of
things than she was seeing this morning. A flouting bobolink flew from
stake to stake in front of her, and bubbled out in melody. She heard a
scythe swishing in a neighboring field, and the musical call of the
mowing-machine afar, and she did not look up. Dumb to the beautiful
outer world, she was broad awake to human souls: the souls of the
Joyces, alive so long before her and stretching back into an unknown
past. They had lived, one after another, in the old house, since
colonial times; and now, after this quiet act of a concluding drama,
Dilly was going to lower the curtain, and sweep them from the stage.

Her mind was peopled with figures. She thought of Jethro, too. He seemed
to be coming ever nearer and nearer. She could hear his tread marching
into her life, and could see his face. It was very moving, as she
remembered it. A long line of scholarly forbears had dowered him with a
refinement and grace quite startling in this unornamented spot, and some
old Acadian ancestor had lent him beauty. His eyes were dark, and they
held an unfathomable melancholy. The line of his forehead and nose ran
haughtily and yet delicate; and even after years of absence, Dilly
sometimes caught her breath when she thought of the way his head was set
upon his shoulders. She had never in her life seen a man or woman who
was entirely beautiful, and he saturated her longing like a prodigal
stream.

She was a little dazed when she climbed the low stone wall, crossed the
road, and came into the grassy wilderness of the Joyce back yard. Nature
had triumphed riotously, as she will when niggardly thrift is away. The
grass lay rich and shining, lodged by last night's shower, and gate and
cellar-case were choked by it. The cinnamon roses bloomed in