make even
the wise and religious man, at times, forget why he was sent into this
world.

Instead of presenting themselves to their nephew and cousin, they both
felt an unconquerable reluctance to enter under the superb, the
melancholy, roof. A bank, a hedge, a tree, a hill, seemed, at this
juncture, a pleasanter shelter, and each felt himself happy in being a
harmless wanderer on the face of the earth rather than living in
splendour, while the wants, the revilings of the hungry and the naked
were crying to Heaven for vengeance.

They gave a heartfelt sigh to the vanity of the rich and the powerful;
and pursued a path where they hoped to meet with virtue and happiness.

They arrived at Anfield.

Possessed by apprehensions, which his uncle's funeral had served to
increase, young Henry, as he entered the well-known village, feared every
sound he heard would convey information of Rebecca's death. He saw the
parsonage house at a distance, but dreaded to approach it, lest Rebecca
should no longer be an inhabitant. His father indulged him in the wish
to take a short survey of the village, and rather learn by indirect
means, by observation, his fate, than hear it all at once from the lips
of some blunt relater.

Anfield had undergone great changes since Henry left it. He found some
cottages built where formerly there were none; and some were no more
where he had frequently called, and held short conversations with the
poor who dwelt in them. Amongst the latter number was the house of the
parents of Agnes--fallen to the ground! He wondered to himself where
that poor family had taken up their abode. Henry, in a kinder world!

He once again cast a look at the old parsonage house: his inquisitive eye
informed him there no alteration had taken place externally; but he
feared what change might be within.

At length he obtained the courage to enter the churchyard in his way to
it. As he slowly and tremblingly moved along, he stopped to read here
and there a gravestone; as mild, instructive conveyers of intelligence,
to which he could attend with more resignation, than to any other
reporter.

The second stone he came to he found was erected _To the memory of the
Reverend Thomas Rymer_, Rebecca's father. He instantly called to mind
all that poor curate's quick sensibility of wrong towards _himself_; his
unbridled rage in consequence; and smiled to think; how trivial now
appeared all for which he gave way to such exce