It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close of
the week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where I
stopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not the
old village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and larger
building stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why had
I expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age.
His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It was
but natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade of
disappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place was
unknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenance
was presented.
But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when my
eyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The old
homestead, with its garden and clambering vines--a picture which had
grown more vivid in my thoughts every year--how earnest was my
desire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, in
which, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirrored
face; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so many
times. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, and
think of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuring
wheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bank
I had gathered wild flowers and raspberries?
I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and when
morning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient to
see the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory.
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