by the way were like objects in a mist
to me and no more clearly discerned. Now and then there came a rift in
the mist; something woke me up out of my sorrow-dream; and of those
points and of what struck my eyes at those minutes I have a most
intense and vivid recollection. I can feel yet the still air of one
early morning's start, and hear the talk between my aunt and the hotel
people about the luggage. My aunt was a great traveller and wanted no
one to help her or manage for her. I remember acutely a beggar who
spoke to us on the sidewalk at Washington. We stayed over a few days
in Washington, and then hurried on; for when she was on the road my
Aunt Gary lost not a minute. We went, I presume, as fast as we could
without travelling all night; and our last day's journey added that
too.

By that time my head was getting steadied, perhaps, from the grief
which had bewildered it; or grief was settling down and taking its
proper place at the bottom of my heart, leaving the surface as usual.
For twelve hours that day we went by a slow railway train through a
country of weary monotony. Endless forests of pine seemed all that was
to be seen; scarce ever a village; here and there a miserable clearing
and forlorn-looking house; here and there stoppages of a few minutes
to let somebody out or take somebody in; once, to my great surprise, a
stop of rather more than a few minutes to accommodate a lady who
wanted some flowers gathered for her. I was surprised to see flowers
wild in the woods at that time of year, and much struck with the
politeness of the railway train that was willing to delay for such a
reason. We got out of the car for dinner, or for a short rest at
dinner-time. My aunt had brought her lunch in a basket. Then the
forests and the rumble of the cars began again. At one time the pine
forests were exchanged for oak, I remember; after that, nothing but
pine.

It was late in the day, when we left the cars at one of those solitary
wayside station-houses. I shall never forget the look and feeling of
the place. We had been for some miles going through a region of swamp
or swampy woods, where sometimes the rails were laid on piles in the
water. This little station-house was in the midst of such a region.
The woods were thick and tangled with vines everywhere beyond the edge
of the clearing; the ground was wet beneath them, and in places showed
standing water. There was scarcely a clearing; the forest was all
round the