When Alvin Mulrady reentered his own house, he no longer noticed
its loneliness. Whether the events of the last few hours had
driven it from his mind, or whether his late reflections had
repeopled it with his family under pleasanter auspices, it would be
difficult to determine. Destitute as he was of imagination, and
matter-of-fact in his judgments, he realized his new situation as
calmly as he would have considered any business proposition. While
he was decided to act upon his moral convictions purely, he was
prepared to submit the facts of Slinn's claim to the usual patient
and laborious investigation of his practical mind. It was the
least he could do to justify the ready and almost superstitious
assent he had given to Slinn's story.

When he had made a few memoranda at his desk by the growing light,
he again took the key of the attic, and ascended to the loft that
held the tangible memories of his past life. If he was still under
the influence of his reflections, it was with very different
sensations that he now regarded them. Was it possible that these
ashes might be warmed again, and these scattered embers rekindled?
His practical sense said No! whatever his wish might have been. A
sudden chill came over him; he began to realize the terrible change
that was probable, more by the impossibility of his accepting the
old order of things than by his voluntarily abandoning the new.
His wife and children would never submit. They would go away from
this place, far away, where no reminiscence of either former wealth
or former poverty could obtrude itself upon them. Mamie--his
Mamie--should never go back to the cabin, since desecrated by
Slinn's daughters, and take their places. No! Why should she?--
because of the half-sick, half-crazy dreams of an old vindictive