The languid flame of a small fire fell across the tiny casement with its ragged curtain of brownish white net. She went up close. She could see the gray beams across the plaster, see the plumy Irish yew standing straight by the yellow, weather-stained wall. The door was half open. She saw the flagged floor exuding moisture, saw one poor chair; a bare brown dresser, on which stood a coarse crock or so. She saw the mere hint of a table, with turned legs which winked feebly in the light. At the deadened sound of her feet there was a heavy clumping across the flags. An old face, the malevolent, evil face of a man, hung in the shadow. She saw the dull, golden fustian of his torn coat, saw his gnarled, filthy hand close round the jamb of the door and shut it. She likened him to an evil spirit. He was a bad omen. It was nonsense, of course; yes, she knew it was nonsense. The man was only Chalcraft. But the mist made everything ghostly, demoniacal. She hadn’t far to go now. She imagined it, she knew every detail, she knew just how it would all look on that particular day--the white wicket-gate dirty and dripping with water, the umbrella yew in a fairy wreath of fog, the great brown pond, with the muddy wheel-tracks zigzagging away from it and the marks of many hoofs in the yellow mud at its edge. The garden beds would be weedy; vivid green here and there with patches of self-sown plants. No doubt, in her absence, Gainah and Daborn had easefully lapsed back to the old way--weeds all the winter and a grand forking in the spring. She pictured the long windows, running away each side of the house door. Inside, Gainah’s red geraniums would still be fitfully blooming. She remembered the sentinel poplars at the gate, the raised brick path leading to the door. She remembered the outbuildings, the untidy muck-yard--all, all. It was here. Twenty more paces would bring her to the pond. She took them tremblingly, things becoming practical now that she was steadily creeping beneath the warm, wide shadow of the place. The mist must surely be thicker than ever. She could not see the poplars; yet how was it that she had been able to see the Irish yew outside Chalcraft’s cottage? It was here, it should be here, it must be. She nearly reeled in the wide road as she peered fearfully about her, looking for so many familiar tokens which should have studded the landscape--but didn’t. It was, it must be, Folly Corner. But--but--was that a new house? What was the meaning of that wall which shot up like a straight, unrelenting shaft and mocked her? The pond was there. The pond! She stared at the big, brown patch of water affectionately--certain of that, anyway.