With my heart thus stirred with grateful thoughts, we spurred on to her home, and coming to the gate, there was no sign of bustle or life of any kind, but such quietness as no one had ever known in the olden time. For in those days the very trees and plants, so it was thought, meditated on the crops and the prospect of gain; but now how changed! Standing upright and staring, they seemed without life and as if awaiting some sad event which they had long foreknown. Thinking my aunt was dead, and yet believing Moth would have told me had this been so, I gave my horse to Fox, and going forward, knocked at the door. Scarce had I done this, when it opened, and the servant, knowing me before I spoke, took my hand, and kissing it, led me through the hall and up the winding stairs to my aunt’s room. Here, opening the door, she motioned me to enter, and when I had done so closed it again and went away without having vouchsafed me a word. Gazing about in the dimly lighted room, I presently made out my aunt propped up in her bed, and intent, as if breathing a prayer. Surprised at her worn and altered look, I neither moved nor spoke. For of the robust form and commanding face of other days there lay before me only a shrunken body, with features worn and wasted so as to be scarce recognized as hers. Only the eyes retained something of the old look, but now lighted as if by some hidden and destructive fire. While I stood thus gazing upon her, my mind filled with sad thoughts, she turned toward the door, and catching sight of my form, gave a start, and stretching out her arms, cried, in a frenzy of fear and haste: "Gilbert! Gilbert! is it you? Come, come to me, quick! quick!" At this I ran to her, and she, clasping my neck, trembling and sobbing, drew me down upon her bosom. Thus we lay in each other’s arms, my heart too full for speech and hers beating against my breast as if it would burst with the strain put upon it. When she had somewhat recovered herself, she did not speak, but murmuring half-articulate words of endearment, fell to stroking my hair and face as if I were a babe nursing at her breast. Having in this way in some measure satisfied her heart’s longing, she took hold of my shoulders, and holding me off, fell to studying my face, as if she would read there all that it had to tell and more. Then softly, and oh, so differently from other days, she spoke: "Oh, my child, my sweet one, how it gladdens my tired heart to see you, and so soon, for I scarce expected you yet, if indeed you came at all." "I hope you did not think so badly of me as that, dear aunt, for I lost not a moment after getting your letter." "Yes, child, I thought you would come; and it was like your father to act quickly. In looks, though, how like you are to your sweet mother! Her color and face and eyes and hair! It is as if she stood beside me in life, so much do you resemble her."