She asked no more; her lips refused to form his name again.

“The old lady, she was took off with a stroke; she and the old gentleman is laying together in the graveyard.”  The farmer volunteered this information, and Susannah, who had nerved herself to meet Ephraim’s mother with humility, now wept for her loss.

From the town of Canandaigua she walked beside the winding river and entered Manchester from the west at the hour when the May dusk was melting into moonlight.

The public road, then as now, was lined with elms and many an apple-tree.  The dusk of the elm branches was flecked with half-grown fluttering leaves, and the outline of the apple branches was heavy with blossom.  The air was sweet in the shade of the night-folded petals, the perfume bringing involuntarily the thought of the hum of bees which had gone to rest.  There were some new houses on the road, but the tide of progress had here ebbed, leaving the once ambitious village like a rock pool, beautified only by those ornaments of nature which thrive in stillness.  There was more on the road of gable and shrub and tree which was familiar than of objects strange to her eye.  The few people who were abroad gave her scarcely a glance, the half light veiling all that was foreign in her garb.  The round moon hung above the willows of the river.

When she came in sight of the white Baptist meeting-house she scanned its homely appearance as one looks at the face of an old friend.  The yellow light within was put out as she approached.  Out of the door a group of men were issuing as if from some evening service.

What vivid memories the scene brought her!—­memories of her uncle singing psalms with slow and solemn demeanour, of her aunt’s high and more emotional voice, of the pew in which as a girl she had sat between them, listless and impatient, wondering at times why Ephraim remained at home.

Her uncle and aunt were now lying in the graveyard.  She paused a moment at the thought, looking at the small host of modest headstones surrounded by wild-flowers and half-fledged shrubs.  It has never been the custom in Manchester to cultivate God’s acre.  Above, the branches of the nut-trees stretched themselves in the sweet spring air—­they too were just leafing.

Standing by the low, unpainted rail, Susannah wondered in what part of the yard her aunt and uncle lay.

She observed that the small coterie of deacons had passed on to the road and dispersed, leaving only one of their number, who was locking the main door with an air of responsibility.  Susannah did not look twice; she knew that this man was Ephraim.  He stooped slightly to fit the key in the lock; then, evidently having forgotten something, pushed the door again and went inside.

Susannah did not wait; she went up the graveyard path and in where the great square windows cast each a strip of light athwart the dark pews.  Ephraim turned from his errand and met her in the aisle.