The horse-chestnuts were in blossom, holding up their white bouquets, which showed dimly.

It was now quite dusky.
Back of the trees the house loomed up.

It was white and bulky, with fluted cornices and corner posts, and a pillared porch to the front door.

Mrs.Field passed between the two outstanding pillars, which reared themselves whitely over her, like ghostly sentries, and stood waiting while Mr.Tuxbury fitted the key to the lock.
It took quite a little time; he could not see very well, he had forgotten his spectacles in his impatient departure.

But at last he jerked open the door, and a strange conglomerate odor, the very breath of the life of the old Maxwell house, steamed out in their faces.
All bridal and funeral feasts, all daily food, all garments which had hung in the closets and rustled through the rooms, every piece of furniture, every carpet and hanging had a part in it.
The rank and bitter emanations of life, as well as spices and sweet herbs and delicate perfumes, went to make up the breath which smote one in the face upon the opening of the door.