was Hepzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia
DeVere. Other people may call that place the Avenue, but I
shall always call it the White Way of Delight. Have we
really only another mile to go before we get home? I'm glad
and I'm sorry. I'm sorry because this drive has been so
pleasant and I'm always sorry when pleasant things end.
Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never
be sure. And it's so often the case that it isn't
pleasanter. That has been my experience anyhow. But I'm
glad to think of getting home. You see, I've never had a
real home since I can remember. It gives me that pleasant
ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home.
Oh, isn't that pretty!"

They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a
pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was
it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower
end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from
the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many
shifting hues--the most spiritual shadings of crocus and
rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for
which no name has ever been found. Above the bridge the
pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay
all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and
there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad
girl tip-toeing to her own reflection. From the marsh at
the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus
of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around
a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was
not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows.