speak, and he followed John into the house; and an ill-cared-for house
it was. He stumbled among heaps of rubbish in the dark passage; and, as
he groped along the wall, his hand brought down patches of old lime, and
was caught in spiders' webs almost as strong as if the spinner had meant
to go a-fowling. When they had got into the parlour, he saw that the
building was indeed a ruin; there was not a whole pane of glass in the
window, nor a plank of wood in the damp floor; and the fireplace,
without fire, or grate to hold it, looked like the entrance to a
burying-vault. John, however, walked quietly in, and sat down on a heap
of rubbish by the ingleside; and William, following his example, sat
down over-against him. His heart now began to quake, and he was afraid,
without knowing what he had to fear. He ran over in his mind the
transactions of the evening--his walk, his reflections, his
anxieties--embracing the whole, as if in one rapid and yet detailed
glance of the soul, and then turned his eyes upon his brother both in
fear and curiosity. What fearful secret could John have to communicate
in a place like this? Could he not have spoken as well in the open air,
where it was so much warmer, and in the blessed light of the moon? No
one was dead, or likely to die, that he cared for; his dearest and
almost only friends were at this moment talking and laughing round their
social table, and near a bright fire, expecting his arrival, and John
and he were--here! At length, repressing by a strong effort the
undefined and undefinable feelings that were crowding upon him, he broke
the silence, which was now beginning to seem strange and embarrassing.

"And how have you been, John?" said he, in the usual form of friendly
inquiries; "and how have you got on in the world since we parted?"

"I have been well." replied John; "and I have got on as well as mortal
man could desire."