now occupied by the strangers to whom our house had been let.

Ah, how my heart ached (young as I was) when I saw the familiar green
waters of the lake once more! It was evening. The first object that
caught my eye was the gayly painted boat, once mine, in which Mary and I
had so often sailed together. The people in possession of our house were
sailing now. The sound of their laughter floated toward me merrily over
the still water. _Their_ flag flew at the little mast-head, from which
Mary's flag had never fluttered in the pleasant breeze. I turned my eyes
from the boat; it hurt me to look at it. A few steps onward brought me
to a promontory on the shore, and revealed the brown archways of the
decoy on the opposite bank. There was the paling behind which we had
knelt to watch the snaring of the ducks; there was the hole through
which "Trim," the terrier, had shown himself to rouse the stupid
curiosity of the water-fowl; there, seen at intervals through the trees,
was the winding woodland path along which Mary and I had traced our way
to Dermody's cottage on the day when my father's cruel hand had torn us
from each other. How wisely my good mother had shrunk from looking again
at the dear old scenes! I turned my back on the lake, to think with
calmer thoughts in the shadowy solitude of the woods.

An hour's walk along the winding banks brought me round to the cottage
which had once been Mary's home.

The door was opened by a woman who was a stranger to me. She civilly
asked me to enter the parlor. I had suffered enough already; I made my
inquiries, standing on the doorstep. They were soon at an end. The woman
was a stranger in our part of Suffolk; neither she nor her husband had
ever heard of Dermody's name.

I pursued my investigations among the peasantry, passing from cottage
to cottage. The twilight came; the moon rose; the lights began to vanish
from the lattice-windows; and still I continued my weary pilgrimage; and
still, go where I might, the answer to my questions was the same. Nobody
knew anything of Dermody. Everybody asked if I had not brought news of
him myself. It pains me even now to recall the cruelly complete defeat
of every effort which I made on that disastrous evening. I passed the
night in one of the cottages; and I returned to London the next day,
broken by disappointment, careless what I did, or where I went next.

Still, we were not wholly parted. I saw Mary--as Dame Dermody said I
should see h