Mere Krebs--she is a hard woman--heard me talking of my girl.

She burst out laughing, 'Lord's sake, fool, why, your girl would be sixty now an she had lived.' Well, so it may be; you see, the new mill was put up the week she died, and you call the new mill old; but, my girl, she is young to me.

Always young.

Come here, Bebee." Bebee went after him a little awed, into the dusky interior, that smelt of stored apples and of dried herbs that hung from the roof.

There was a walnut-wood press, such as the peasants of France and the low countries keep their homespun linen in and their old lace that serves for the nuptials and baptisms of half a score of generations.
The old man unlocked it with a trembling hand, and there came from it an odor of dead lavender and of withered rose leaves.
On the shelves there were a girl's set of clothes, and a girl's sabots, and a girl's communion veil and wreath.
"They are all hers," he whispered,--"all hers.