n this
man went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant that what he had
observed in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind, and that he
feared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never come
back alive.

With a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man's
attention (remembering the expression of his face when they parted),
Mr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches,
bargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road as
the point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await his
return at a house of entertainment which was within a stone's-throw of
that place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued his
way on foot.

He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from
among the trees, while a flock of pigeons--some of its old inhabitants,
doubtless--sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the unclouded
sky. 'The old house will brighten up now,' he said, as he looked towards
it, 'and there will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is
some comfort to know that everything will not be blighted hereabouts. I
shall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to,
in my mind!'

He resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was a
clear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the
leaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsy
sheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and, at intervals, the far-off
lowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky was radiant with
the softened glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the air, a deep
repose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted mansion
which had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon its
blackened walls.

The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in them there
is an image of death and ruin,--of something that has been bright, and
is but dull, cold, dreary dust,--with which our nature forces us to
sympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting
down of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform
the worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up such
sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would put
the proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to the
blush!

He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked sl