He stumbled on. Here, by the fence, she was wont to come down of a morning to see him off to work, of an evening to welcome him home, and—yes—often and often o’ night time to watch for him along the dark and lonely road, when he was coming home—as he was coming to-night—full of drink. Home? Yes, it was home _then_, little as he had appreciated it. He stopped at the fence, and steadied himself on its worn and worm-eaten bar. The moonlight was leaking through the cloud again, and dimly lit the thatched roof of the cottage, whose blank windows and sealed door looked sadly across the field at him. The latched gate was close to his hand: he opened it and went in, and the moon shone out more brightly. The apple-tree was bare, the climbing blush rose and hardy canary-creeper on the porch were barren and leafless, the frost lay hard and crisp on the neglected garden path where he had often seen her watering the peonies and the sweet-william, or dressing the hollyhocks in some leisure moment. It was cold and lifeless now in the cold moonlight, but he saw it in sunlight and in summer, when the vegetables were green in the tiny plot of land, when the few sweet-peas scented the air, or when the apples were red on the tree. He had never noticed any of it then, but now he was sure there had been sweet-peas and hollyhocks, and that he had seen his mother cutting the cabbages beyond them. He scratched his head, he could not make himself out. If it had been daylight no power would have led him to open that gate and steal into this forgotten corner, but even so he could not make himself out. The cold air had been sobering him fast, but he told himself that he was drunk. It was “jolly true enough” all that they had said: he hated his home, and had been in it as little as might be; he had broken his mother’s heart, and now that she was dead how could it be that he should either miss her or mourn her? Of course it could not be. But still he lingered; the drink that was in him kept him warm, and he forgot the frost and saw the summer again. And as he looked, the moon left the last of the cloud behind and shone out brilliantly; and there, beneath the apple-tree, he saw again the spare figure of medium height in the faded print gown, standing still as large as life. His heart seemed to stop beating: there might be no such things as ghosts, but who was that figure standing there under the apple-tree? It stirred now. Was it coming to meet him? He felt a cold sweat break out over his brow. No, it moved in the opposite direction—across the grass, past the cottage; it was moving in the direction of the river. And he followed—as though he were _obliged_ to follow; slowly at first, as in a dream, but as the figure quickened its pace—more quickly too. What was it, where was it going?