She went to the hill overlooking the town, to the spot where Conway was buried, taking Frank to walk there with her. The grave was near the brow of the hill on the side that sloped back from the town, slightly under the top of the rise where the enclosure looked toward the hill farms beyond. She walked about in the summer grass, which was tall now, much of it in blossom, and she heard in some dim way the talk Frank made as he sauntered by her side, as he spoke of Conway, of the grass, of the pine trees, as he quoted something about pines and grass. The high points of the town stood visible off to the north, and the church steeples arose among the tall trees, and a bit of the roof of the Seminary. To the south the graves dipped up and down with the flow of the near hillside and fell away at a fence where a rose clung, but beyond the rose lay a field of oats, ready to cut. It was a strange place in which to find Conway, and a renewed aspect of him arose with a new flavor. The mockingbird that sang on the fence near the rose began to partake of him. The tall grass waved in the late afternoon sun, swaying about throughout the entire graveyard, even over the new mould that had covered him but a few months. The town stretched away to an immeasurable distance, and the song of the mockingbird became the atmosphere one breathed, a touched substance, giving life to the breath of man, set about the earth to flow with the winds. The tall swaying grass with its sunlight was the people of the earth, the reason for the continuance of the world. When Frank spoke she folded his words together, having subtracted from them their meaning, and dropped them over the brow of the hill beyond the reach of the grass, beyond the mockingbird’s song. “This grass needs to be cut, I declare,” he said. “It’s a shame. It looks as bad as a wilderness.” “It’s tall. Everywhere. In bloom,” she said. “There might be a field-lark somewhere.” “It’s the fault of the committee. There are some things....” She had folded his words together at the moment of her reply and dropped them beyond the sublimated air of the hilltop. The third fact of Conway prevailed now to its last power and had shared now with every beautiful object which her mind might entertain. The former world had departed, shrunken to a minute size in its going, flattened to commonplace, gone with the departed town, the old air, the trite matter of talk. Because she had never before brought Conway into this intense relation with the song of a bird and with the grass, the act brought him nearer each instant. The sense of her losses lay above the hilltop world which was aerated by the mockingbird’s song, and it spread as a cloud drawing nearer, a desolation as yet to be realized. “Everybody liked him,” Frank said. “He was just like his brother Reginald. Everybody likes Reg. It was careless to leave a lamp all night under an incubator, wasn’t it? It’s queer nobody heard the explosion.”