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or looked into his flushed and healthy face； she would not have
abated them by one sad word or murmur； though each had been
to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him of
pleasure。
It is something to look upon enjoyment； so that it be free and
wild and in the face of nature； though it is but the enjoyment of an
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idiot。 It is something to know that Heaven has left the capacity of
gladness in such a creature’s breast； it is something to be assured
that； however lightly men may crush that faculty in their fellows；
the Great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his despised and
slighted work。 Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy in the
sunlight； than a wise man pining in a darkened jail！
Ye men of gloom and austerity； who paint the face of Infinite
Benevolence with an eternal frown； read in the Everlasting Book；
wide open to your view； the lesson it would teach。 Its pictures are
not in black and sombre hues； but bright and glowing tints； its
music—save when ye drown it—is not in sighs and groans； but
songs and cheerful sounds。 Listen to the million voices in the
summer air； and find one dismal as your own。 Remember； if ye
can； the sense of hope and pleasure which every glad return of day
awakens in the breast of all your kind who have not changed their
nature； and learn some wisdom even from the witless； when their
hearts are lifted up they know not why； by all the mirth and
happiness it brings。
The widow’s breast was full of care； was laden heavily with
secret dread and sorrow； but her boy’s gaiety of heart gladdened
her； and beguiled the long journey。 Sometimes he would bid her
lean upon his arm； and would keep beside her steadily for a short
distance； but it was more his nature to be rambling to and fro； and
she better liked to see him free and happy； even than to have him
near her； because she loved him better than herself。
She had quitted the place to which they were travelling；
directly after the event which had changed her whole existence；
and for two…and…twenty years had never had courage to revisit it。
It was her native village。 How many recollections crowded on her
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mind when it appeared in sight！
Two…and…twenty years。 Her boy’s whole life and history。 The
last time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees； she
carried him in her arms； an infant。 How often since that time had
she sat beside him night and day； watching for the dawn of mind
that never came； how had she feared； and doubted； and yet hoped；
long after conviction forced itself upon her！ The little stratagems
she had devised to try him； the little tokens he had given in his
childish way—not of dulness but of something infinitely worse； so
ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning—came back as vividly as if
but yesterday had intervened。 The room in which they used to be；
the spot in which his cradle stood； he； old and elfin…like in face； but
ever dear to her； gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye； and
crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him； every
circumstance of his infancy came thronging back； and the most
trivial； perhaps； the most distinctly。
His older childhood； too； the strange imaginings he had； his
terror of certain senseless things—familiar objects he endowed
with life； the slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror； in
which； before his birth； his darkened intellect began； how； in the
midst of all； she had found some hope and comfort in his being
unlike another child； and had gone on almost believing in the slow
development of his mind until he grew a man； and then his
childhood was complete and lasting； one after another； all these
old thoughts sprung up within her； strong after their long slumber
and bitterer than ever。
She took his arm and they hurried through the village street。 It
was the same as it was wont to be in old times； yet different too；
and wore another air。 The change was in herself； not it； but she
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never thought of that； and wondered at its alteration； and where it
lay； and what it was。
The people all knew Barnaby； and the children of the place
came flocking round him—as she remembered to have done with
their fathers and mothers round some silly beggarman； when a
child herself。 None of them knew her； they passed each well…
remembered house； and yard； and homestead； and striking into
the fields； were soon alone again。
The Warren was the end of their journey。 Mr Haredale was
walking in the garden； and seeing them as they passed the iron
gate； unlocked it； and bade them enter that way。
‘At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place；’ he
said to the widow。 ‘I am glad you have。’
‘For the first time； and the last； sir；’ she replied。
‘The first for many years； but not the last？’
‘The very last。’
‘You mean；’ said Mr Haredale； regarding her with some
surprise； ‘that having made this effort； you are resolved not to
persevere and are determined to relapse？ This is unworthy of you。
I have often told you； you should return here。 You would be
happier here than elsewhere； I know。 As to Barnaby； it’s quite his
home。’
‘And Grip’s；’ said Barnaby； holding the basket open。 The raven
hopped gravely out； and perching on his shoulder and addressing
himself to Mr Haredale； cried—as a hint； perhaps； that some
temperate refreshment would be acceptable—‘Polly put the ket…tle
on； we’ll all have tea！’
‘Hear me； Mary；’ said Mr Haredale kindly； as he motioned her
to walk with him towards the house。 ‘Your life has been an
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example of patience and fortitude； except in this one particular
which has often given me great pain。 It is enough to know that you
were cruelly involved in the calamity which deprived me of an
only brother； and Emma of her father； without being obliged to
suppose （as I sometimes am） that you associate us with the author
of our joint misfortunes。’
‘Associate you with him； sir！’ she cried。
‘Indeed；’ said Mr Haredale； ‘I think you do。 I almost believe that
because your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation；
and died in his service and defence； you have come in some sort to
connect us with his murder。’
‘Alas！’ she answered。 ‘You little know my heart； sir。 You little
know the truth！’
‘It is natural you should do so； it is very probable you may；
without being conscious of it；’ said Mr Haredale； speaking more to
himself than her。 ‘We are a fallen house。 Money； dispensed with
the most lavish hand； would be a poor recompense for sufferings
like yours； and thinly scattered by hands so pinched and tied as
ours； it becomes a miserable mockery。 I feel it so； God knows；’ he
added； hastily。 ‘Why should I wonder if she does！’
‘You do me wrong； dear sir； indeed；’ she rejoined with great
earnestness； ‘and yet when you come to hear what I desire your
leave to say—’
‘I shall find my doubts confirmed？’ he said； observing that she
faltered and became confused。 ‘Well！’
He quickened his pace for a few steps； but fell back again to her
side； and said：
‘And