It is a thought as sweet as heaven to know that in the minds of each of us the may by the fence still blooms in an eternal springtime; that the snowdrop has in our hearts a triple birth, and blooms in three separate minds, faultlessly… So that if all the flowers and grasses and hollows and hills of the old house were razed and mutilated – as they are now, I suppose – we keep them intact in three minds, each depending on the other to supply it with the delicate minutiae of remembrance.