It is with her, sitting there, as it is with most men, that when numbed in mind and heart by some great trouble her senses are more alive to outward sounds and scenes. It is as if when one's inner self is working with some emotion, wrestling with some potential moral enemy, crying out under the crucifixion of some soul-passion, eyes and ears, and above all sense of smell, are busy receiving impressions and storing them up, as a phonograph records a sound, to reproduce them with absolute fidelity if any of the senses be touched in the same way by the subtile connection between perfume and memory. She will, in all time to come, never forget that old garden. She is rocking unconsciously to and fro. Her thoughts, and the emotions belonging to them, cross one another rapidly, flash past as the landscape seen from a mail train, so that she cannot fasten any of them. The weary vigils of many months, the details of days and hours, are ticked off as the events on a tape. The look in his eyes, press of his fingers; the quiet face with the awful look of peace; the rapid changes to a thing to be hidden away as swiftly as hands can coffin it; the clasped fingers, never to be lifted in tender caress or angry gesture; the future to face without even the rough protection of his passionate, wayward affection;--all these conflicting images and reasonings dash through her brain, and yet not a detail of her surroundings escapes her,--the strips of blue fjord, with the pilot boats with their numbered sails in the immediate foreground, and the prams turned bottom up on the miniature wharf for a fresh coat of paint; the dip of the white sail of a pleasure-boat in the distance, and the gleam of the scarlet cap of a girl steering; bright flecks on the black-green shadows of the trees in the near background, that stand out distinctly from the misty blue of the distant mountains, misty with the purple light that only clothes the northern heights.