"And the odours, Clive! How the scent of the August fields,

of the crisp salt hay, seemed to grip at my heart!--all the

subtle, evanescent odours characteristic of that part of Long

Island seemed to gather, blend, and exhale for my particular

benefit that afternoon.

"The old tavern appeared to me so much smaller, so much more

weather-beaten and shabby than my recollection of it. The

sign still hung there--'Hotel Greensleeve'--and as I walked

by it I looked up at the window of my mother's room. The

blinds were closed; nobody appeared to be around. I don't

know why, Clive, but it seemed to me that I must go in for a

moment and take one more look at my mother's room.... I am

glad I did. There was nobody to stop me. I went up the stairs

on tiptoe and opened her door, and looked in. She was there,

sewing.

"I went in very softly and sat down on the carpet by her

chair.... It was the happiest moment I have known since she

died.

"And when she was no longer there I rose and crept down the

stairs and through the hallway to the bar; and peeped in. An

old man sat there asleep by the empty stove. And after a

moment I decided it was Mr. Ledlie. But he has grown

old--old!--and I let him sleep on in the sunshine without

disturbing him.

"It was the same stove where you and I sat and nibbled peach

turnovers so many years ago. I wanted to see it again.

* * * * *

"So I went back to New York in the late golden afternoon

feeling very peaceful and dreamy,--and a trifle tired. And

found Hafiz stretched on the lounge; and stretched myself out

beside him, taking the drowsy, purring, spoiled thing into my

arms. And went to sleep to dream of you who gave me Hafiz, my

dear and beloved friend.

* * * * *

"Write me when you can; as often as you desire. Always your

letters are welcome messengers.

"ATHALIE."




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