is the dim stairway, the stairway that I people with shadowy beings the
thought of which makes me tremble. . . . And my mother? I would wish
most especially for her, but I know that she has gone out, gone out into
the long streets which in my imagination have no end. I had myself gone
to the door with her and had asked her: "When returnest thou?" And she
had promised me that she would return speedily. Later they told me that
when I was a child I would never permit any members of the family to
leave the house to go walking or visiting without first obtaining their
assurance of a speedy homecoming. "You will come back soon?" I would
say, and I always asked the question anxiously, as I followed them to
the door.

My mother had departed, and it gave my heart a feeling of heaviness to
know that she was out. Out in the streets! I was content not to be there
where it was cold and dark, where little children so easily lost their
way,--how snug it was to be within doors before the fire that warmed me
through and through; how nice it was to be at home! I had never realized
it until this evening--doubtless it was my first distinct feeling of
attachment to hearth and home, and I was sadly troubled at the thought
of the immense, strange world lying beyond the door. It was then that
I had, for the first time, a conscious affection for my aged aunts and
grand-aunts, who cared for me in infancy, whom I longed to have seated
around me at this dim, sad, twilight hour.

In the meantime the once bright and playful flames had died down, the
armful of wood was consumed, and as the lamp was not lighted, the room
was quite dark. I had already stumbled upon the home-spun carpet, but as
I had not hurt myself, I recommenced my amusing play. For an instant I
thought to experience a new but strange joy by going into the shadowy
and distant recesses of the room; but I was overtaken there by an