ened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she had
found some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had
gone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind until he
grew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting; one after
another, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their
long slumber and bitterer than ever.

She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It was
the same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and wore
another air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought of
that, and wondered at its alteration, and where it lay, and what it was.

The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking
round him--as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers
round some silly beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her;
they passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead; and
striking into the fields, were soon alone again.

The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was walking in the
garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, and
bade them enter that way.

'At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place,' he said to
the widow. 'I am glad you have.'

'For the first time, and the last, sir,' she replied.

'The first for many years, but not the last?'

'The very last.'

'You mean,' said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise, 'that
having made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere and are
determined to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you,
you should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I
know. As to Barnaby, it's quite his home.'

'And Grip's,' said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven hopped
gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing himself to Mr
Haredale, cried--as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate refreshment
would be acceptable--'Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea!'

'Hear me, Mary,' said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to walk
with him towards the house. 'Your life has been an example of patience
and fortitude, except in this one particular which has often given me
great pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the
calamity which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father,
without being obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associate
us with the author of our jo