I watched the three women of Grange House pass by in the open cart bearing Halcy to her grave. At opposite ends of the cart bench, Cook and Miss Grange sat mute and frozen, struck into a strange resemblance by their uncompromising sorrow. Between them sat Mrs. French, who could not keep herself from leaning over to Cook and whispering encouragements with each forward step of the horse, though Cook stared straight ahead, unhearing. Just as the cart vanished from sight, I saw Miss Grange look back once, as if she had been called. Then she turned right round and placed her hand upon Halcy’s coffin, and she left it there as they passed through the trees upon the road toward Middle Haven.

The following morning, I arose and instinctively lifted the curtain to look down the lawn, as if I might spot Halcy there. The blue waters shone back like shook foil. July arched overhead. I let fall the gauzy stuff.

And that day passed, and then the next, and another, until a full week had gone by since she had drowned. With slow returning life, the House started up, its meals eaten, small excursions ventured upon, the fires in the evening banked, then stirred again at dawn. Gently, inexorably, the terrible incident was carried under by the quiet force of summer. Gradually, the guests grew familiar and lazy, the city politesse thrown off and formal names, like hats and gloves, set by and left, to be taken up again in autumn. Eatons, Harringtons, Hunnowells, Havemeyers, Lamonts, Phillips, McGoverns: All became loose dots upon a landscape of summer, dark trousers tucked into high clamming boots, shell aprons tied over white cambric blouses—groups that met and formed, walked out or sat, accompanying one another across the green lawn.

One afternoon, I stood deep among the raspberry bushes at the side of the House, pulling the ripe berries from their stems, the juice staining my fingers in a vain protest. My hands ventured carefully among the thorny stems and green leaves, determined to overcome the watchdog vines in search of my prize. The heavy droning of the bees hung about me, partners in delight at the sun and the rich smell of the earth and the fruit. I knew myself to be the only picker at that hour, and I said a silent congratulation on my enterprise as the bowl behind me filled.

“But then, what is it you mean to do?” Mrs. Hunnowell’s voice burst out upon the piazza above me. I crouched farther down so as to pick unremarked.

“Do, Mater? Whatever do you mean?” Mr. Hunnowell teased.

“With your time, Bart. Your time. It is several years since you returned from Tunisia—this letter of your father’s is a grand proposal.”

He snorted. “Why ever not? Your books were a great success.”

Now there came an overly dramatic sigh—still, he was light.