It came.

The dear old days of my wanderings with Temple framed her face.

I knew her without need of pause or retrospect.

The crocus raising its cup pointed as when it pierced the earth, and the crocus stretched out on earth, wounded by frost, is the same flower.
The face was the same, though the features were changed.

Unaltered in expression, but wan, and the kind blue eyes large upon lean brows, her aspect was that of one who had been half caught away and still shook faintly in the relaxing invisible grasp.
We stopped at a distance of half-a-dozen paces to allow her time for recollection.