prosaic, surface-life of a prosperous young man, with no troubles
to conquer, and no trials to face. He had lost no relation whom he
loved, no friend whom he treasured. Till this night, what share he
had of the immortal inheritance that is divided amongst us all, had
laid dormant within him. Till this night, Death and he had not
once met, even in thought.

He took a few turns up and down the room--then stopped. The noise
made by his boots on the poorly carpeted floor, jarred on his ear.
He hesitated a little, and ended by taking the boots off, and
walking backwards and forwards noiselessly. All desire to sleep or
to rest had left him. The bare thought of lying down on the
unoccupied bed instantly drew the picture on his mind of a dreadful
mimicry of the position of the dead man. Who was he? What was the
story of his past life? Poor he must have been, or he would not
have stopped at such a place as The Two Robins Inn--and weakened,
probably, by long illness, or he could hardly have died in the
manner in which the landlord had described. Poor, ill, lonely,--
dead in a strange place; dead, with nobody but a stranger to pity
him. A sad story: truly, on the mere face of it, a very sad
story.

While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he had stopped
insensibly at the window, close to which stood the foot of the bed
with the closed curtains. At first he looked at it absently; then
he became conscious that his eyes were fixed on it; and then, a
perverse desire took possession of him to do the very thing which
he had resolved not to do, up to this time--to look at the dead
man.