Ware's references to the North woods had touched lightly some dim memory of her own; somewhere she had seen moon-flooded, snowy woodlands where silence lay upon the world as soft as moonlight itself.
The picture drawn by the minister had been vivid enough; for a moment her own memory of a similar winter landscape seemed equally clear; but she realized with impatience that it faded quickly and became dim and illusory, like a scene in an ill-lighted steropticon.

To-night she felt that a barrier lay between her and those years of her life that antedated her coming to her grandfather's house by the college.

It troubled her, as such mirages of memory trouble all of us; but Ware finished his story, and amid the laughter that followed Mrs.Martin rose.
"Late hours, Sylvia," said Professor Kelton when they were alone.

"It's nearly eleven o'clock and time to turn in.".