58 The Old Stone House, 



and the scenes of life and of death that are written there 

 are pictured to you, so the old lane and the fields brought 

 a thousand impressions that made us laugh and weep in 

 turn. The songs of Summer, the wind rustling in the trees, 

 the wind again in Winter, and all the fields white with 

 snow, and that ever dawning and setting of the sun. 



All of this came to us, and we trembled as we entered 

 the old gate between the giant poplars at the end of the 

 lane, and stood by the thick stone walls of the house. It 

 was deserted now ; no face watched at the window, only 

 our own reflections peered back upon us like a visual echo, 

 as we looked on the little square panes. 



We knocked at the door; perhaps the shade of Mr. 

 Moorewood, the last occupant, might be lingering there, 

 engaged in reverie, so we knocked hard on the door with 

 the knocker. A sound gently prepares you for a presence, 

 and we hoped not to intrude too abruptly upon his 

 Sabbath meditations. 



There is a sadness in beholding the rooms once thought 

 so homelike given over to solitude and dampness. How 

 seldom we picture our own home as deserted forever, and 

 the fire gone out, for the pent-up fire has a warm, bright 

 soul of its own. The sun shining in at the window, and 

 even the singing of the birds without, seem strange in the 

 deserted room. A man's garments found in a field cause 

 you to start. So any artificial thing without its counter- 

 part is a surprise; a road without vehicles and a house 

 without tenants alike impress us with the sense of incom- 

 pletenesss. 



No wonder, then, that we stood before the hearth 



