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But as he thought it, he knew that even if he could sit here alone and get it back again, it would be gone as soon as seized, just as it had been then—first coming like the vast and drowsy rumors of the distant and enchanted Fair, then fading like cloud shadows on a hill, going like faces in a dream—coming, going, coming, possessed and held but never captured, like lost voices in the mountains long ago—and like the dark eyes and quiet face of the dark, lost boy, his brother, who, in the mysterious rhythms of his life and work, used to come into this house, then go, and then return again.

The woman took Eugene back into the house and through the hall. He told her of the pantry, told her where it was and pointed to the place, but now it was no longer there. And he told her of the backyard, and of the old board fence around the yard. But the old board fence was gone. And he told her of the carriage house, and told her it was painted red. But now there was a small garage. And the backyard was still there, but smaller than he thought, and now there was a tree.

“I did not know there was a tree,” he said.”I do not remember any tree.”

“Perhaps it was not there,” she said.”A tree could grow in thirty years.” And then they came back through the house again and paused at the sliding doors.

“And could I see this room?” he said.

She slid the doors back. They slid open smoothly, with a rolling heaviness, as they used to do. And then he saw the room again. It was the same. There was a window at the side, the two arched windows at the front, the alcove and the sliding doors, the fireplace with the tiles of mottled green, the mantle of dark mission wood, the mantel posts, a dresser and a bed, just where the dresser and the bed had been so long ago.

“Is this the room?” thewoman said.”It hasn’t changed.”

He told her that it was the same.

“And your brother slept here where my brothers sleep?”

“This is his room,” he said.

They were silent. He turned to go, and said, “Well, thank you. I appreciate your showing me.”

She said that she was glad and that it was no trouble.”And when you see your family, you can tell them that you saw the house,” she said.”My name is Mrs. Bell. You can tell your mother that a Mrs. Bell has the house now. And when you see your brother, you can tell him that you saw the room he slept in, and that you found it just the same.”

He told her then that his brother was dead.

The woman was silent for a moment. Then she looked at him and said: “He died here, didn’t he? In this room?”

He told her that it was so.

“Well, then” she said, “I knew it. I don’t know how. But when you told me he was here, I knew it.”

He said nothing. In a moment the woman said, “What did he die of?”

“Typhoid.”

She looked shocked and troubled, and said involuntarily, “My two brothers—”

“That was a long time ago,” he said.”I don’t think you need to worry now.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about that,” she said.”It was just hearing that a little boy—your brother—was—was in this room that my two brothers sleep in now—”

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t have told you then. But he was a good boy—and if you’d known him you wouldn’t mind.”

She said nothing, and he added quickly: “Besides, he didn’t stay here long. This wasn’t really his room—but the night he came back with my sister he was so sick—they didn’t move him.”

“Oh,” the woman said, “I see.” And then: “Are you going to tell your mother you were here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I—I wonder how she feels about this room.”

“I don’t know. She never speaks of it.”

“Oh. . . . How old was he?”

“He was twelve.”

“You must have been pretty young yourself.”