"The old tavern appeared to me so much smaller, so much more weather-beaten and shabby than my recollection of it. The sign still hung there—'Hotel Greensleeve'—and as I walked by it I looked up at the window of my mother's room. The blinds were closed; nobody appeared to be around. I don't know why, Clive, but it seemed to me that I must go in for a moment and take one more look at my mother's room.... I am glad I did. There was nobody to stop me. I went up the stairs on tiptoe and opened her door, and looked in. She was there, sewing.
"I went in very softly and sat down on the carpet by her chair.... It was the happiest moment I have known since she died.
"And when she was no longer there I rose and crept down the stairs and through the hallway to the bar; and peeped in. An old man sat there asleep by the empty stove. And after a moment I decided it was Mr. Ledlie. But he has grown old—old!—and I let him sleep on in the sunshine without disturbing him.
"It was the same stove where you and I sat and nibbled peach turnovers so many years ago. I wanted to see it again.
"So I went back to New York in the late golden afternoon feeling very peaceful and dreamy,—and a trifle tired. And
found Hafiz stretched on the lounge; and stretched myself out beside him, taking the drowsy, purring, spoiled thing into my arms. And went to sleep to dream of you who gave me Hafiz, my dear and beloved friend.
"Write me when you can; as often as you desire. Always your letters are welcome messengers.
"Athalie."