ears. The low
thatched roof of the small homestead, and the stunted and twisted trees
surrounding it, seemed like a possible refuge to him, where for a little
while he might find shelter from the storm of life. He pressed on with
eagerness, and found himself quickly at the door, which he had never met
with fastened.

But it was locked now. After knocking twice he tried the latch, but it
did not open. He went to the little window, uncurtained as usual and
peered in, but all was still and dark; there was not a glimmer of light
on the hearth, where he had always seen some glimmering embers. There
was no sign of life about the place; no dog barking, no sheep bleating,
or fowls fluttering about the little farm-yard. All the innocent,
joyous gayety of the place had vanished; yet he could see that it was
not falling into decay; the thatch was in repair, the dark interior,
dimly visible through the window, was as it used to be. It was not a
ruin, but it was not a home. A home might have received him with its
hospitable walls, or a ruin might have given him an hour's shelter. But
Phebe's door was shut against him, though it would have done him good to
stand within it once more, a penitent man.

He was turning away sadly, when a loud rustic voice called to him; and
Simon Nixey, almost hidden under a huge load of dried ferns, came into
sight. Jean Merle stepped down the stone causeway of the farm-yard to
open the gate for him.

"What are you doing here?" he inquired suspiciously.

"A wood-carver, called old Marlowe, used to live here," he answered,
"what has become of him?"

"Dead!" said Simon; "dead this many a year. Why, if you know anything
you ought to know that."

"What did he die of?" asked Jean Merle.

"A broken heart, if ever man did," answered Simon; "he'd saved a mint o'
money by scraping and moiling; and he lost it all when there was a run
on the Old Bank over thirteen years ago. He couldn't talk about it like
other folks, poor old Dummy! and it struck inwards, as you may say. It
killed him as certain as if they'd shot a bullet into him."

Jean Merle staggered as if Simon had struck him a heavy blow. He had not
thought of anything like this, old Marlowe dying broken-hearted, and
Phebe left alone in the world. Simon Nixey seemed pleased at the
impression his words had produced.

"Ay!" he said, "it was hard on old Marlowe; and drove my cousin, John
Nixey, into desperate ways o' drinking. Not but all the money w