And now comes the strange part of my story—­the part which will not, I suppose, be believed.  If it were not for one thing I think I should hardly believe it myself.  I should feel tempted to think I had dreamed it.  But because of that one thing I know it was real.  The night was very calm and still.  Not a breath of wind stirred.  The moonshine was the brightest I had ever seen.  In the middle of the garden, where the shadow of the poplars did not fall, it was almost as bright as day.  One could have read fine print.  There was still a little rose glow in the west, and over the airy boughs of the tall poplars one or two large, bright stars were shining.  The air was sweet with a hush of dreams, and the world was so lovely that I held my breath over its beauty.

Then, all at once, down at the far end of the garden, I saw a woman walking.  I thought at first that it must be Mary Sloane; but, as she crossed a moonlit path, I saw it was not our old servant’s stout, homely figure.  This woman was tall and erect.

Although no suspicion of the truth came to me, something about her reminded me of Hester.  Even so had Hester liked to wander about the garden in the twilight.  I had seen her thus a thousand times.

I wondered who the woman could be.  Some neighbor, of course.  But what a strange way for her to come!  She walked up the garden slowly in the poplar shade.  Now and then she stooped, as if to caress a flower, but she plucked none.  Half way up she out in to the moonlight and walked across the plot of grass in the center of the garden.  My heart gave a great throb and I stood up.  She was quite near to me now—­and I saw that it was Hester.

I can hardly say just what my feelings were at this moment.  I know that I was not surprised.  I was frightened and yet I was not frightened.  Something in me shrank back in a sickening terror; but I, the real I, was not frightened.  I knew that this was my sister, and that there could be no reason why I should be frightened of her, because she loved me still, as she had always done.  Further than this I was not conscious of any coherent thought, either of wonder or attempt at reasoning.

Hester paused when she came to within a few steps of me.  In the moonlight I saw her face quite plainly.  It wore an expression I had never before seen on it—­a humble, wistful, tender look.  Often in life Hester had looked lovingly, even tenderly, upon me; but always, as it were, through a mask of pride and sternness.  This was gone now, and I felt nearer to her than ever before.  I knew suddenly that she understood me.  And then the half-conscious awe and terror some part of me had felt vanished, and I only realized that Hester was here, and that there was no terrible gulf of change between us.

Hester beckoned to me and said,

“Come.”

I stood up and followed her out of the garden.  We walked side by side down our lane, under the willows and out to the road, which lay long and still in that bright, calm moonshine.  I felt as if I were in a dream, moving at the bidding of a will not my own, which I could not have disputed even if I had wished to do so.  But I did not wish it; I had only the feeling of a strange, boundless content.