isjointed fragments of building, one of them
suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck
which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of gray wall, all
incrusted with lichens, in which was a common door-way. Probably it had
been a servants' entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called
"the offices" in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered,--pantry and
kitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the door-way
open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wild
creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a
melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to
nothing,--closed once, perhaps, with anxious care, bolted and guarded,
now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first; so
perhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it an
importance which nothing justified.

The summer was a very happy period of repose for us all. The warmth of
Indian suns was still in our veins. It seemed to us that we could never
have enough of the greenness, the dewiness, the freshness of the northern
landscape. Even its mists were pleasant to us, taking all the fever out
of us, and pouring in vigor and refreshment. In autumn we followed the
fashion of the time, and went away for change which we did not in the
least require. It was when the family had settled down for the winter,
when the days were short and dark, and the rigorous reign of frost upon
us, that the incidents occurred which alone could justify me in intruding
upon the world my private affairs. These incidents were, however, of so
curious a character, that I hope my inevitable references to my own
family and pressing personal interests will meet with a general pardon.

I was absent in London when these events began. In London an old Indian
plunges back into the interests with which all his previous life has been
associated, and meets old friends at every step. I had been circulating
among some half-dozen of these,--enjoying the return to my former life in
shadow, though I had been so thankful in substance to throw it
aside,--and had missed some of my home letters, what with going down from
Friday to Monday to old Benbow's place in the country, and stopping on
the way back to dine and sleep at Sellar's and to take a look into
Cross's stables, which occupied another day. It is never safe to miss
one's letters. In this transit