The little piano is dumb night after night, its candles
unlighted, and there is no one to play Chopin to us now as the
day dies, and the shadows stoop out of their corners to listen in
vain. Old house, old house! We are alone, quite alone,--there
is no mistake about that,--and the soul has gone out of both of
us. And as for the garden, there is no company there; that is
loneliest of all. The very sunlight looks desolation, falling
through the thick-blossoming apple-trees as through the chinks
and crevices of deserted Egyptian cities.

While as for the books--well, never talk to me again about the
companionship of books! For just when one needs them most of all
they seem suddenly to have grown dull and unsympathetic, not a
word of comfort, not a charm anywhere in them to make us forget
the slow-moving hours; whereas, when Margaret was here--but it is
of no use to say any more! Everything was quite different when
Margaret was here: that is enough. Margaret has gone away to the
Fortunate Isles. Of course she'll come to see us now and again;
but it won't be the same thing. Yes! old echoing silent House of
Joy that is Gone, we are quite alone. Now, what is to be done?



CHAPTER II

IN WHICH I DECIDE TO GO ON PILGRIMAGE

Though I have this bad habit of soliloquising, and indeed am
absurd enough to attempt conversation with a house, yet the