Somewhere in the garden, or near it, a nightingale was singing.
Deep shadows lay across the lawn, and all the trees were dreaming. Far out, the meadows covered with a light mist, were like a mystic silver-flooded sea.
For a long time Anne did not move. Her long talk had revived memories. They crowded so swiftly to her mind that she grew bewildered, and as though impelled by a sudden impulse to seek relief, she rose and crossed the room to a tall bureau opposite the window.
Its interior revealed a number of pigeonholes, and tiny cupboards with brass knobs. Pressing a spring under one of these, a deep drawer sprang open.
She felt in its recesses for a moment, and presently drew out a book bound in a linen cover. Then lighting a candle and placing it on the table near the window, she resumed her seat.
In the quiet air the candle flame burnt clear and steady, and opening the book, Anne began to read a journal begun in her childhood. The volume was an ordinary thick exercise book such as schoolgirls use, and on the first page, in a large childish hand, was written—
“Anne Page,
“Tufton Street,
“Dalston,
“London, 18—.