He stepped to the front window, and looked in. All that met his gaze was
a bare, dismantled room.

"Not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "Well, he
don't appear to be here; I'll go round to the back part of the house."

He went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the first
place, to knock. No answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw
no one.

"The coast is clear," he concluded. "So much the better, if I can get
in."

The door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised.
Through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only
room occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above,
which he used as a bedchamber. Here he cooked and ate his meals, and
here he spent his solitary evenings.

Jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. He
looked around him, with some curiosity.

"It is eighteen years since I was last in this room," he said. "Time
hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short
laugh. "I've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and
I've come back as poor as I went away. What's that copy I used to
write?--'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' Well, I'm the rolling stone.
In all that time my Uncle Paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone,
and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. As