She sees the figure of a small, dark woman in long gray skirts. The woman is angry. She is carrying a wicker basket on one arm. She is walking among stones, headstones: she is in a graveyard under a gray-green sky. With her are eight girls, the youngest among them quite little; they all have little wicker baskets hanging from their arms; they are wandering among the stones near their mother's grave, stopping, stooping, plucking, gathering red-capped mysteries from the consecrated earth. Constance can see them so clearly--distance avails not between such well-knit generations: for there is her foremother, and there is Babe's foremother; all the eight sisters are there. The small woman in gray directs them. Some six feet above her head, invisible to the little girls, the poor dead headmasters are hovering about in a suggestion of lichen-swelled limbs, mourning the ruin of their lives' work. And as Constance watches, the woman in gray turns to meet her eyes: in a voice that echoes with the absence of emotion she says, "The time has come. Another domestic revolution is at hand."