and in the dead of night she arose out of bed in dream, and with eyes wide open yet seeing nothing of reality, moved silently through the vacant house. past the room where her grandmother was snoring in brief, heavy slumber, she stepped light and surely, and down the wide staircase. and vega the far-shining stood over against the window above the slate roof. ann walked in the strange room as if she were being guided by the hand towards the oak chest. there, just as if she was dreaming it was her bed, she laid herself down in the old rose silk, in the fragrant place. but it was so dark in the room that the movement of the lid was indistinguishable.

through the long day, the grandmother sat in her bow-window. her lips were pursed, and she looked with dim, inquisitive scrutiny upon the street where people passed to and fro, and vehicles rolled by. at evening she climbed the stair and stood in the doorway of the large spare bedroom. the ascent had shortened her breath. her magnifying spectacles rested upon her nose. leaning her hand on the doorpost she peered in towards the glimmering square of window in the quiet gloom. but she could not see far, because her sight was dim and the light of day feeble. nor could she detect the faint fragrance, as of autumnal leaves. but in her mind was a tangled skein of memories--laughter and tears, and little children now old-fashioned, and the advent of friends, and long farewells. and gossiping fitfully, inarticulately, with herself, the old lady went down again to her window-seat.