urrounded by a quadrangular wall, about ten feet in height, with
a square tower at each corner. At first I could discover no entrance;
walking round, however, to the northern side, I found a wide and lofty
gateway with a tower above it, similar to those at the angles of the
wall; on this side the ground sloped gently down towards the bog, which
was here skirted by an abundant growth of copsewood, and a few evergreen
oaks. I passed through the gateway, and found myself within a square
enclosure of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep,
or donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strewing
the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, on the other side, stood
the remains of an oblong house, built something in the modern style, with
various window-holes; nothing remained but the bare walls and a few
projecting stumps of beams, which seemed to have been half burnt. The
interior of the walls was blackened, as if by fire; fire also appeared at
one time to have raged out of the window-holes, for the outside about
them was black, portentously so.

"I wonder what has been going on here!" I exclaimed.

There were echoes along the walls as I walked about the court. I entered
the keep by a low and frowning doorway: the lower floor consisted of a
large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted roof; on the left hand was a
winding staircase in the thickness of the wall; it looked anything but
inviting; yet I stole softly up, my heart beating. On the top of the
first flight of stairs was an arched doorway; to the left was a dark
passage; to the right, stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the
arch and found myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below,
but higher. There was an object at the farther end.

An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few
sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful
hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had
heard my footsteps. I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance
rested on my face.

"Is this your house, mother?" I at length demanded, in the language which
I thought she would best understand.

"Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the broken-hearted."

"Any other person's house?" I demanded.

"My own house, the beggar's house--the accursed house of Cromwell!"

CHAPTER XII.

One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother at