So he left the highway, and walked down the road through the woods. The brown leaves that were beginning to fall rustled beneath his feet, and the yellow patches of sunlight slid over his head and shoulders as he walked beneath the shadow of the grey trees along the roadside. Then he came out of the woods and into the open sunlight again. Now he was on the grass-bordered foot-path; on one side of him was the white dusty road, and on the other the mill-race, with the row of pollard willows standing along it. In front of him were the white walls of the mill-house, with the vines clustered around the end of the old well-remembered porch, just as he had seen them last. As he came closer he saw a slender girl’s figure sitting in a high-backed rocking chair, half hidden by the net-work of the vines around her. It was Patty. Tom’s heart gave a great leap within him; then stood still, and then began to beat furiously. He paused for a moment, gazing at her, his hand resting on the top of the picket fence in front of the garden; then he went forward again, but very slowly. She was sitting bent over some sewing that lay spread out on her lap. He stood for a second or two at the green gate that led up to the porch, and then he laid his hand on the latch. At the click of the latch Patty raised her head, and Tom saw that she, like others that he had met, did not know him. She arose and stood watching him as he came slowly up the path; his heart beating as though it would smother him. He reached the porch;—one step,—two steps,—three steps,—and he stood upon it and looked at her. Then he saw a strange frightened look come slowly into her eyes; she reached out her hand and laid it on the top of the rocking chair near to her. “Patty!” There was a space of dead silence, through which Tom heard and noticed the sound of rushing water and the clattering of the mill. He did not go a step forward, for, as he looked at her, there was that in her face that chilled him through and through—it was as though a gulf had opened between them. Her face was as white as death, and Tom saw the fingers of the hand that rested on the top of the rocking chair, quivering nervously. She moistened her lips with her tongue, and at last she spoke, but in a hoarse whisper, and so low that he could hardly hear the matter of the words: “Tom—Tom—Oh, my God, Tom! is that thee?” “Yes, Patty; it’s me! I’ve come back to thee after a sorely long time! Why don’t thee speak—why don’t thee say something to me? What’s the matter, Patty?” “Wait—wait—let me think!” said she, putting her finger to her forehead, “they all told me that thee was dead—they said that thee was drowned. Can dead people come back again?” “Patty! Patty!” cried Tom, “my own darling! tell me; what does this mean?” By this time the tears were running in streams down her pale cheeks; she made no effort to wipe them away, and did not seem to know that they were flowing.