“It seems so to you,” replied my father, vaguely. “But at least it is very pleasant,” I insisted. “I’m glad you find it so,” he said; “I should have been disappointed if it had struck you as cold, or--gloomy--in any way.” It was still so early that all the village was asleep. The blinds and curtains of the houses were drawn and the doors yet locked. None of our neighbors were astir, nor were there any signs of traffic yet in the little shops. The great factory-bell, which woke the operatives at half-past four, had rung, but this was the only evidence as yet of human life or motion. It did not occur to me, till afterwards, to wonder at the inconsistency between the hour struck by my own Swiss clock and the factory time. I was more interested in another matter which just then presented itself to me. The village, as I say, was still asleep. Once I heard the distant hoofs of a horse sent clattering after the doctor, and ridden by a messenger from a household in mortal need. Up to this time we two had seemed to be the only watchers in all the world. Now, as I turned to see if I could discover whose horse it was and so who was in emergency, I observed suddenly that the sidewalk was full of people. I say full of people; I mean that there was a group behind us; a few, also, before us; some, too, were crossing the street. They conversed together standing at the corners, or walked in twos, as father and I were doing; or strolled, some of them alone. Some of them seemed to have immediate business and to be in haste; others sauntered as he who has no occupation. Some talked and gesticulated earnestly, or laughed loudly. Others went with a thoughtful manner, speaking not at all. As I watched them I began to recognize here and there, a man, or a woman;--there were more men than women among them, and there were no children. A few of these people, I soon saw, were old neighbors of ours; some I had known when I was a child, and had forgotten till this moment. Several of them bowed to us as we passed along. One man stopped and waited for us, and spoke to Father, who shook hands with him; intimating, however, pleasantly enough, that he was in haste, and must be excused for passing on. “Yes, yes, I see,” said the man with a glance at me. I then distinctly saw this person’s face, and knew him beyond a doubt, for an old neighbor, a certain Mr. Snarl, a miserly, sanctimonious man--I had never liked him. “Father!” I stopped short. “Father, that man is dead. He has been dead for twenty years!” Now, at this, I began to tremble; yet not from fear, I think; from amazement, rather, and the great confusion which I felt. “And there”--I pointed to a pale young man who had been thrown from his carriage (it was said because he was in no condition to drive)--“there is Bobby Bend. He died last winter.” “Well,” said Father quietly, “and what then?” “And over there--why, certainly that is Mrs. Mersey!”