I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided.  He left, telling us he was a “natral bone-setter.”  One by one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone.  I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the ascending shores.  We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see all the village roofs humble before it.  The streets and dwellings looked as insignificant as those of a toy village.  I perceived no movement in it, heard no hum of life.  At a cross-road, which would take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim possessed me.  I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting to hear the stage.  The driver let me out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight.

A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine, undisturbed by it.  The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods.  I walked slowly.  The road was deserted.  Mrs. Grossman’s house was the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty.  As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed to impede my progress.  They were like lead; I impelled myself along, as in a dream.  Under the protection of our orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color, spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard.  The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and gave the atmosphere a yellow stain.  The pigeons were skimming up and down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were in the yard.  A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and ran in.  Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door for the familiar voices.  Mother must be there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce.  All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody on my way.  There was no talking within.  The last sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light, and faded before I opened the door.  I was arrested on the threshold by a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace.  Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had fallen close to her feet.  A white flannel shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast.  “She is ill, and has dropped asleep,” I thought, thrusting my hands out, through this terrible silence, to break