And indeed, to him, it was truly a death chamber in which the bed, all covered over with a white sheet, might have been a bier, and the pillows put lengthwise down it, the shrouded form of one dearly loved and lost.

He gazed about, staring at the familiar pieces of furniture, out of wide red eyes, smarting with unshed tears.

In her looking glass, he seemed to see the ghost-reflection of her small pale face with its old whimsical charm.

The shadowy eyes under the untidy mass of red-brown hair, in which the curls and tendrils stood out as if endowed with a magnetic life of their own; the sensitive lips; the little pointed chin; and, in the eyes and on the lips, that gently mocking, alluring smile.
There were a few poems that Colin had taught himself to say by heart, and which he would recite to himself often when he was alone in the Bush.

THE ANCIENT MARINER was one, and there were some of Rudyard Kipling's and he loved THE IDYLLS OF THE KING--in especial GUINIVERE.
Three lines of that poem leaped to his memory at this moment.
'THY SHADOW STILL WOULD GLIDE FROM ROOM TO ROOM AND I SHOULD EVERMORE BE VEXT WITH THEE IN HANGING ROBE AND VACANT ORNAMENT.' He went to the wardrobe where her dresses hung as she had left them, only that daily, he had shaken them, cared for them so that no hot climate pest should injure them.