The feeling of last days grew stronger with her as their number diminished.  She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions.  She became exceptionally considerate and affectionate with her father and aunt, and more and more concerned about the coming catastrophe that she was about to precipitate upon them.  Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation.  She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark.  But she did not bother her head very much about her relations with these sympathizers.

And at length her penultimate day in Morningside Park dawned for her.  She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood.  She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning.  She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience.  She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—­her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.  Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland.  The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai.  The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced.  And here against a wall were the plum-trees.  In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elm-trees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping.

Remote little Ann Veronica!  She would never know the heart of that child again!  That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands.  She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms.  She was going through a new world with him side by side.  She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood.  Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year.