erward the struggles of
poor gentlemen and women, who had hardly warmed its walls with their
pitiful fires, and shivering, hungry lives; then the long procession
of travellers who had been sheltered there in its old tavern days;
finally, my cousin Matthew and his wife, who had made it their home,
when, with all their fortune, they felt empty-handed, and as if their
lives were ended, because their only son had died. Here they had
learned to be happy again in a quiet sort of way, and had become older
and serener, loving this lovable place by the river, and keepers of
its secret--whatever that might be.

I was wide awake that first evening: I was afraid of being sent to
bed, and, to show cousin Agnes that I was not sleepy, I chattered far
more than usual. It was warm, and the windows of the parlor where we
sat looked upon the garden. The moon had risen, and it was light out
of doors. I caught every now and then the faint smell of honeysuckle,
and presently I asked if I might go into the garden a while; and
cousin Agnes gave me leave, adding that I must soon go to bed, else I
would be very tired next day. She noticed that I looked grave, and
said that I must not dread being alone in the strange room, for it was
so near her own. This was a great consolation; and after I had been
told that the tide was in, and I must be careful not to go too near
the river wall, I went out through the tall glass door, and slowly
down the wide garden-walk, from which now and then narrower walks
branched off at right angles. It was the pride of the place, this
garden; and the box-borders especially were kept with great care. They
had partly been trimmed that day; and the evening dampness brought out
the faint, solemn odor of the leaves, which I never have noticed since
without thinking of that night. The roses were in bloom, and the
snowball-bushes were startlingly white, and there was a long border
filled with lilies-of-the-valley. The other flowers of the season were
all there and in blossom; yet I could see none well but the white
ones, which looked like bits of snow and ice in the summer
shadows,--ghostly flowers which one could see at night.

It was still in the garden, except once I heard a bird twitter
sleepily, and once or twice a breeze came across the river, rustling
the leaves a little. The small-paned windows glistened in the
moonlight, and seemed like the eyes of the house watching me, the
unknown new-comer.

For a while I wand