attered, yet remained; attesting, by their presence, that the former
owner had made the very light subservient to his state, and pressed the
sun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into
his chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues
and colours from their pride.

But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it
would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the best room
of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in decay, and was
much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings, waving on the walls;
and, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty's dress; the light of
women's eyes, outshining the tapers and their own rich jewels; the sound
of gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden feet, had once
been there, and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with
them all its gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born
and bred there; the fireside had become mercenary--a something to be
bought and sold--a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or
leave it, it was still the same--it missed nobody, cared for nobody,
had equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever
changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!

No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before the
broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on a square
of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures, grinning
and grotesque. After lighting with his own hands the faggots which were
heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his
cook, touching the stranger's entertainment; while the guest himself,
seeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the
distant window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.

Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together,
or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was
quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest
corner, summoned John Willet.

'Sir,' said John.

He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the
mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this
before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.

'There's a house not far from here,' said the guest when he had written
a few lines, 'which you call the Warren, I belie