hood's home, I am in my father's house, my foot cannot go astray on this familiar ground.
As the cock for the third time crows his morning greeting over the town, I stand in the little street leading to the graveyard. The low, yellow thatched houses, where the wreath-makers live, still frame the street, and, as though it were yet twenty years ago, the simple wreaths of ivy, moss, and immortelles hang over the tiny doors with their old-fashioned latches. In one of the houses a window is opened, and, attracted by the noise of the early morning wanderer, a little, white-capped granny puts out her head. I buy wreaths and put the modest sum into her withered hand, and, followed by her blessing, I pass through the gate into the graveyard, where I am received by bird-twitterings, the perfume of cypresses, and morning fresh flowers.
My mother's grave lies far from the high road in a quiet corner, among hundreds of others. The invisible hand leads me along half-overgrown paths which wind in and out among the grassy mounds, and suddenly I stand in front of the small enclosure where mother rests with a child on either side, a large mound between two smaller. Fresh ivy covers all three and winds itself round the simple, marble cross, and over it a lilac-tree and a laburnum bend their heavy weight of blossoms. In each of the four corners are planted rose-trees, which are just unfolding their pink and white buds to the smile of the morning sun, refreshed by the rain-tears of the night.
