mind of my own imprisonment there in the rock-bound city. As I thought of it, I could see the green hills of the North all starred with dandelions; I could hear the full flow of the streams that pass between them—you know—and that evening we were on our way to Hillsborough. Uncle Eb, then a “likely boy” of eighty-six, and Elizabeth Brower and Lucinda Bisnette were still in the old home. We had quickly planned a holiday to be full of surprise and delight for them.
They were in the midst of the days that are few and silent—those adorned with the fading flowers of old happiness and thoughts which are “the conclusion of the whole matter.” As for ourselves, we found them full of a peace and charm I would fain impart to those who read of them, if that
were possible. I know well how feebly I shall do my task, but now, at last, a time is come when it seems to call me, and I can begin it with some hope and courage. I shall try not to write a book, nor a tale even, but mainly to gather a few flowers, now full grown, in the garden of remembrance. You that see it growing lovelier in the lengthening distance will understand me.
Always, when our train went roaring into the quiet village, we used to look out of the car-window down across the river and a smooth stretch of fields into the edge of the little town. At a small, familiar opening in the shade-trees, almost half a mile from the train, we never failed to see the flicker of a white handkerchief. It signalled their welcome. And then—well, I doubt
