companions took
their leave. But to Cranfield's fancy their images were still present,
and became more and more invested with the dim awfulness of figures
which had first appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown
themselves in his waking moments, assuming homely aspects among
familiar things. His mind dwelt upon the features of the squire till
they grew confused with those of the visionary sage and one appeared
but the shadow of the other. The same visage, he now thought, had
looked forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same form had
beckoned to him among the colonnades of the Alhambra; the same figure
had mistily revealed itself through the ascending steam of the Great
Geyser. At every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the
dreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, self-important,
little-great man of the village. Amid such musings Ralph Cranfield sat
all day in the cottage, scarcely hearing and vaguely answering his
mother's thousand questions about his travels and adventures. At
sunset he roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm
tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand pointing
downward at the half-obliterated inscription.

As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams
threw his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow
walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment
stalking in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew near
each object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it
proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and
youth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more
transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone
days. A company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and
refreshed him with their fragrant breath. "It is sweeter," thought he,
"than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the Spice
Islands." The round little figure of a child rolled from a doorway and
lay laughing almost beneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and stately man
stooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to his mother's
arms. "The children," said he to himself, and sighed and smiled--"the
children are to be my charge." And while a flow of natural feeling
gushed like a well-spring in his heart he came to a dwelling which he
could nowise forbear to enter. A sweet voice which seemed to come from
a deep and tende