whispered blessing; and that, he knew, would abide with him.
If the heart could have coined the treasure it sent back, his
mother would have been poor no more.

He did not sit down, nor stop, nor shed a tear. It would have
gone hard with him if he had been obliged to speak to anybody;
but there was nobody to speak to. Few were abroad, at that
late season and unlovely time. Comfort had probably retreated
to the barns and farmhouses -- to the _homesteads_, -- for it was
a desolate road that he travelled; the very wagons and horses
that he met were going home, or would be. It was a long road,
and mile after mile was plodded over, and evening began to say
there was nothing so dark it might not be darker. No Asphodel
yet.

It was by the lights that he saw it at length and guessed he
was near the end of his journey. It took some plodding then to
reach it. Then a few inquiries brought him where he might see
Mr. Glanbally.

It was a corner house, flush upon the road, bare as a poverty
of boards could make it, and brown with the weather. In the
twilight he could see that. Winthrop thought nothing of it; he
was used to it; his own house at home was brown and bare; but
alas! this looked very little like his own house at home.
There wasn't penthouse enough to keep the rain from the
knocker. He knocked.

"Is Mr. Glanbally at home?"