e scene affects us with a strange mixture of memory and
anticipation, like some sweet old air heard in the distance. As my eyes
rested on those, to me, funereal but glorious woods, which formed the
background of the picture, my thoughts recurred to my father's mysterious
intimations and the image of the approaching visitor; and the thought of
the unknown journey saddened me.

In all that concerned his religion, from very early association, there was
to me something of the unearthly and spectral.

When my dear mamma died I was not nine years old; and I remember, two days
before the funeral, there came to Knowl, where she died, a thin little man,
with large black eyes, and a very grave, dark face.

He was shut up a good deal with my dear father, who was in deep affliction;
and Mrs. Rusk used to say, 'It is rather odd to see him praying with that
little scarecrow from London, and good Mr. Clay ready at call, in the
village; much good that little black whipper-snapper will do him!'

With that little black man, on the day after the funeral, I was sent out,
for some reason, for a walk; my governess was ill, I know, and there was
confusion in the house, and I dare say the maids made as much of a holiday
as they could.

I remember feeling a sort of awe of this little dark man; but I was not
afraid of him, for he was gentle, though sad--and seemed kind. He led me
into the garden--the Dutch garden, we used to call it--with a balustrade,
and statues at the farther front, laid out in a carpet-pattern of
brilliantly-coloured flowers. We came down the broad flight of Caen stone
steps into this, and we walked in silence to the balustrade. The base was
too high at the spot where we reached it for me to see over; but holding my
hand, he said, 'Look through that, my child. Well, you can't; but _I_ can
see beyond it--shall I tell you what? I see ever so much. I see a cottage
with a steep roof, that looks like gold in the sunlight; there are tall
trees throwing soft shadows round it, and flowering shrubs, I can't say
what, only the colours are beautiful, growing by the walls and windows, and
two little children are playing among the stems of the trees, and we are on
our way there, and in a few minutes shall be under those trees ourselves,
and talking to those little children. Yet now to me it is but a picture in
my brain, and to you but a story told by me, which you believe. Come, dear;
let us be going.'

So we descended the steps at