my uncle was in, I was mostly with him, and seldom more than a few
minutes at a time with Martha. Our feelings are odd creatures! Now that
both were away, there was neither time nor space in my heart for feeling
the house desolate; while the world outside was rich as a treasure-house
of mighty kings. The moment I was a little more comfortable with myself,
my thoughts went in a flock to the face that looked over the garden-wall,
to the man that watched me while I slept, the man that wrote that lovely
letter. Inside was old Penny with her broom: she took advantage of every
absence to sweep or scour or dust; outside was John Day, and the roses of
the wilderness! He was waiting the hour to come to me, wondering how I
would receive him!

Slowly went the afternoon. I had fallen in love at first sight, it is
true; not therefore was I eager to meet my lover. I was only more than
willing to see him. It was as sweet, or nearly as sweet, to dream of his
coming, as to have him before me--so long as I knew he was indeed coming.
I was just a little anxious lest I should not find him altogether so
beautiful as I was imagining him. That he was good, I never doubted:
could I otherwise have fallen in love with him? And his letter was so
straightforward--so manly!

The afternoon was cloudy, and the twilight came the sooner. From the
realms of the dark, where all the birds of night build their nests,
lining them with their own sooty down, the sweet odorous filmy dusk of
the summer, haunted with wings of noiseless bats, began at length to come
flickering earthward, in a snow infinitesimal of fluffiest gray and
black: I crept out into the garden. It was dark as wintry night among
the yews, but I could have gone any time through every alley of them
blind-folded. An owl cried and I started, for my soul was sunk in its own
love-dawn. There came a sudden sense of light as I opened the door into