She felt herself again the little girl who had sat in summer evenings, miles away from the talk of her elders in a happy child’s reverie, and who had grown dizzy with watching the swimming reflection in the whirlpool.  She had a strange fleeting hallucination that she was again sitting in the moonlight, her cheeks flushed and her strong young pulse beating high to hear Nathaniel’s footfall draw nearer down the road.  She felt again the warm, soft weight of her little son, the first-born, the one who had died young, as she remembered how proud she and Nathaniel had been when he first noticed the moon.

An odd passion of recollection possessed her.  As the moon rose higher she seemed to be living over at one time a thousand hours of her busy, ardent life.  She looked at the high, drooping line of the mountains with her childhood’s delight in its clear outline against the sky; she saw the white stones of the old graveyard, next door, glimmer through the shadow cast by the church tower, with the half uneasy, fearful pleasure of her romantic girlhood; she felt about her the solidity and permanency of the old house, her father’s and her grandfather’s home, with the joy in protected security of her young married life; and through it all there ran a heavy sick realization that she was, in fact, a helpless old woman, grown too feeble to conduct her own life, and who was to be forced to die two deaths, one of the spirit and one of the body.

“Come, mother,” said Nathaniel, rising, “we’d better go to bed.  We both of us get notiony sitting here in the moonlight.”

He helped her raise her weighty body with the deftness of long practice and they both went dully into the house.

The knowledge of the sky and of the signs of weather which was almost an instinct with the descendant of generations of farmers, was put to an anxious use during the days which followed.

Not since the days when, as a young girl, she had roamed the mountains, as much a part of the forest and fields as any wild inhabitant, had she so scanned the face of the valley which was her world.

She had stopped hoping for any release from her sentence.  She only prayed now for one more day of grace, and into each day she crowded a fullness of life which was like a renewal of her vigorous youth.

Of late years, existence had flowed so uniform a passage through the channels of habit that it had become but half sentient.  The two old people had lived in almost as harmoniously vacant and vital a silence as the old trees in the forest back of the house.  In the surroundings which generations of human use had worn to an exquisite fitness for their needs, and to which a long lifetime had adjusted their every action, they convicted their life with the unthinking sureness of a process of Nature.  But now the old woman, feeling exile close upon her, drew from every moment of the familiar life an essential savor.