I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May; that it was Easter Sunday, and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnized by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than Alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen except that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly reposing upon the graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had once tenderly loved, just as I had really seen them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died.