It was a quiet autumn afternoon when I stopped at the solitary station, and set forth alone on foot by the well-remembered road. The waning sun was shining faintly through thin white clouds⁠—the air was warm and still⁠—the peacefulness of the lonely country was overshadowed and saddened by the influence of the falling year.

I reached the moor⁠—I stood again on the brow of the hill⁠—I looked on along the path⁠—and there were the familiar garden trees in the distance, the clear sweeping semicircle of the drive, the high white walls of Limmeridge House. The chances and changes, the wanderings and dangers of months and months past, all shrank and shrivelled to nothing in my mind. It was like yesterday since my feet had last trodden the fragrant heathy ground. I thought I should see her coming to meet me, with her little straw hat shading her face, her simple dress fluttering in the air, and her well-filled sketchbook ready in her hand.

Oh death, thou hast thy sting! oh, grave, thou hast thy victory!