Fancies and regrets float mistily in the dream, and the 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.