him in pleasant places; he
had had a goodly heritage, and he had lost it through grasping
dishonestly at a larger share of what this world called success. The
madness and the folly of his sin smote him with unutterable bitterness.

He could bear to look at it no longer. The yearning he had felt to see
his old home was satisfied; but the satisfaction seemed an increase of
sorrow. He would not wait to witness the return of his children. The old
man was gone into the house, and the garden was quiet and deserted. With
weary strokes he rowed back again up the river; and with a heavier
weight of sorrow and a keener consciousness of sin he made his way
through the streets so familiar to his tread. It was as if no eye saw
him, and no heart warmed to him in his native town. He was a stranger in
a strange place; there was none to say to him, here or elsewhere on
earth, "You are one of us."

CHAPTER XIII.

A LONDON GARRET.

There was one other place he must see before he went out again from this
region of many memories, to which all that he could call life was
linked--the little farmstead on the hills, which, of all places, had
been his favorite haunt when a boy, and which had been the last spot he
had visited before fleeing from England. Phebe Marlowe he had seen; if
he went away at once he could see her home before her return to it. Next
to his mother and his wife, he knew that Phebe was most likely to
recognize him, if recognition by any one was possible. Most likely old
Marlowe was dead; but if not, his senses would surely be too dull to
detect him.

The long, hot, white highway, dusty with a week's drought, carried back
his thoughts so fully to old times that he walked on unconscious of the
noontide heat and the sultriness of the road. Yet when he came to the
lanes, green overhead and underfoot, and as silent as the
mountain-heights round Engelberg, he felt the solace of the change. All
the recollections treasured up in the secret cells of memory were
springing into light at every step; and these were remembrances less
bitter than those the sight of his lost home had called to mind. He felt
himself less of a phantom here, where no one met him or crossed his
path, than in the streets where many faces looking blankly at him wore
the well-known features of old comrades. By the time he gained the
moorlands, and looked across its purple heather and yellow gorse, his
mind was in a healthier mood than it had been for y