passing the aged elm-tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance
of a hand, pointing downward at the half-obliterated inscription. As
Cranfield walked down the street of the village, the level sunbeams
threw his shadow far before him; and be fancied that, as his shadow
walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment
stalking in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew near
each object, over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it
proved to be--one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and
youth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more
transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in bygone
days. A company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and
refreshed him with their fragrant breath. "It is sweeter," thought
he, "than the perfume which was wafted to our shipp from the Spice
Islands." The round little figure of a child rolled from a doorway,
and lay laughing almost beneath Cranfield's feet. The dark and
stately man stooped down, and, lifting the infant, restored him to his
mother's arms. "The children," said he to himself, and sighed, and
smiled,--"the children are to be my charge!" And while a flow of
natural feeling gushed like a wellspring in his heart, he came to a
dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. A sweet voice, which
seemed to come from a deep and tender soul, was warbling a plaintive
little air, within.

He bent his head, and passed through the lowly door. As his foot
sounded upon the threshold, a young woman advanced from the dusky
interior of the house, at first hastily, and then with a more
uncertain step, till they met face to face. There was a singular
contrast in their two figures; he dark and picturesque,--one who had
battled with the world,--whom all suns had shone upon, and whom all
winds had blown on a varied course; she neat, comely, and quiet,--