you scarce know, with as little respect for your
family records as you have for theirs,--when you return after a long
interval of years to a house like that, you stand, as stood Darrell, a
forlorn stranger under your own roof-tree. What cared he for those who
had last gathered round those hearths with their chill steely grates,
whose forms had reclined on those formal couches, whose feet had worn
away the gloss from those costly carpets? Histories in the lives of many
might be recorded within those walls. "Lovers there had breathed their
first vows; bridal feasts had been held; babes had crowed in the arms of
proud young mothers; politicians there had been raised into ministers;
ministers there had fallen back into independent members;" through those
doors corpses had been borne forth to relentless vaults. For these races
and their records what cared the owner? Their writing was not on the
walls. Sponged out, as from a slate, their reckonings with Time; leaving
dim, here and there, some chance scratch of his own, blurred and bygone.
Leaning against the mantelpiece, Darrell gazed round the room with a
vague wistful look, as if seeking to conjure up associations that
might link the present hour to that past life which had slipped away
elsewhere; and his profile, reflected on the mirror behind, pale and
mournful, seemed like that ghost of himself which his memory silently
evoked.

The man is but little altered externally since we saw him last, however
inly changed since he last stood on those unwelcoming floors; the form
still retained the same vigour and symmetry,--the same unspeakable
dignity of mien and bearing; the same thoughtful bend of the proud
neck,--so distinct, in its elastic rebound, from the stoop of debility
or age, thick as ever the rich mass of dark-brown hair, though, when in
the impatience of some painful thought his hand swept the loose curls
from his forehead, the silver threads might now be seen shooting here
and there,--vanishing almost as soon as seen. No, whatever the baptismal
register may say to the contrary, that man is not old,--not even
elderly; in the deep of that clear gray eye light may be calm, but
in calm it is vivid; not a ray, sent from brain or from heart, is yet
flickering down. On the whole, however, there is less composure than of
old in his mien and bearing; less of that resignation which seemed to
say, "I have done with the substances of life." Still there was gloom,
but it was mo