And then we came to the pool—the little sweet pool that is like the heart of the garden. The three swans were close to the shore looking at something dark that lay there. And it was she, Carin. It was little madam grandmother. She had fallen with her face in the water, and it seemed as if she had not even tried to rise. Keefe saw her and sprang to her and picked her up in his arms, and I came and looked at her. “She has gone where she wished to go,” said Keefe. “She is with her son.” “Yes, I am sure it is as she would like it to be,” I cried, and I held her hand in mine all the way to the house, and wondered if she knew I was glad for her—that I was congratulating her. But, Oh, Carin, how one’s throat can ache! How one’s heart can hang heavy, like a weight! How one’s eyes can burn and head can throb, and how one’s thoughts can heavily turn and turn, like an iron wheel! Did you ever have a great sorrow? Oh, yes, I remember that you did, when your three brothers were lost in that horrible theater fire. Well, I have had a great sorrow before, too, when I lost my little mother. But I was so young then and so generally miserable, and life had been hideous for so long, that it was only one added pang. It was different from this. I seem unable to get that scene in the garden out of my mind. Grandmother seems still to be fluttering before those portraits of herself, or in among the cabinets in the drawing-room, or along the corridors, beckoning to her old Martha, or calling out to me: “Your arm, Azalea, please.” The funeral was strangely quaint and beautiful. So many old people came—old friends from far away as well as near at hand, and I cannot begin to tell you about the curious coaches and carriages that some of them came in. The bishop preached the service, the funeral being held, oddly enough, in the old ballroom of the house—the room where grandmother had danced as a bride. But it looked very imposing and solemn on the day of her burial. It is paneled in dark wood, and all about it were candles burning in their sconces, and from grandmother’s coffin trailed a great cloth of gold and black brocade. The bishop had a voice like an organ, and when I heard him reading: “I am the resurrection and the life,” my sorrow seemed to lighten. Everyone was very kind to me—much kinder than I had any right to expect. I had to meet many of the old family friends. It was really required of me, Aunt Lorena explained, for there were a number present on this occasion who had not been at my coming-out party. So, after the funeral, I was introduced to them.