I 



AT DAWN OF DAY 



DARK is the hour before the dawn, and 

 surely never was dawn preceded by an 

 hour darker than this. There is no sound 

 of living thing within the silent rooms and 

 long lonely passages, but one may hear the 

 many strange voices with which an ancient 

 house complains to itself in the silent hours. 

 The beams groan and the panels creak, and 

 ever and anon come the echoes of forgotten 

 footsteps, that were perhaps trodden a 

 century ago, and whose sound has been ever 

 since wandering up and down the world 

 unheard, until they have found their way 

 back to their first home. 



Of a truth never has an old house had 

 better reason to complain. It has known 

 the men of eight centuries, who have passed 

 their little hurried lives in it, have uttered 



i B 



