Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a markeven upon durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such aperiod works nothing less than transformation. In Barnet's oldbirthplace vivacious young children with bones like india-rubber hadgrown up to be stable men and women, men and women had dried in theskin, stiffened, withered, and sunk into decrepitude; whileselections from every class had been consigned to the outlyingcemetery. Of inorganic differences the greatest was that a railwayhad invaded the town, tying it on to a main line at a junction adozen miles off. Barnet's house on the harbour-road, once soinsistently new, had acquired a respectable mellowness, with ivy,Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and even constitutionalinfirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Its architecture,once so very improved and modern, had already become stale in style,without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned. Treesabout the harbour-road had increased in circumference or disappearedunder the saw; while the church had had such a tremendous practicaljoke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to bescarce recognizable by its dearest old friends.

　　During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen orheard of in the town of his fathers.

　　It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-agedfarmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-BullHotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and lessfrequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-toppedcounter in a perfunctory attitude of attention, these latter sighingand making a private observation to one another at odd intervals, onmore interesting experiences than the present.

　　'Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, as he looked towardsthe street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by.

　　The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the proprietyof this remark, and finding that nobody else spoke, one of thebarmaids said 'yes,' in a tone of painful duty.

　　'Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for home-along.'

　　'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of blankness.

　　'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter.'

　　The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this.

　　The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from thecounter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of herface with the smallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door,and presently remarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in fromstation.'

　　The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass doordividing the hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibusdrew up outside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, andthen a man came into the hall, followed by a porter with aportmanteau on his poll, which he deposited on a bench.

　　The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, adeeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance bakedby innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and thatof his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walkedmeditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing hisown mental equilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of hisbreast had evidently made him so accustomed to its situation therethat it caused him little practical inconvenience.

　　He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes fixed on thebarmaids, he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two headdressed them, and asked to be accommodated for the night. As hewaited he looked curiously round the hall, but said nothing. Assoon as invited he disappeared up the staircase, preceded by achambermaid and candle, and followed by a lad with his trunk. Not asoul had recognized him.

　　A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had drivenoff to their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took abiscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, wherethe radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of lateyears as to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow,stall, and idler that occupied the wayside, whether shabby orgenteel. His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the namespainted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as they werevisible; these now differed to an ominous extent from what they hadbeen one-and-twenty years before.

　　The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's, where helooked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man wasstanding behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. Thegray-haired observer entered, asked for some periodical by way ofpaying for admission, and with his elbow on the counter began toturn over the pages he had bought, though that he read nothing wasobvious.

　　At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voicewhich had a curious youthful cadence in it even now.

　　'My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.

　　'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger. 'But it is so manyyears since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect itshould be otherwise.' After a short silence he continued--'And isthe firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?--theyused to be large flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'

　　'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name ofBarnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name--at least, I neverknew of any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'

　　'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?'

　　'He's dead, sir.'

　　'And the Vicar of St. Mary's--Mr. Melrose?'

　　'He's been dead a great many years.'

　　'Dear me!' He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. 'Is Mr.

　　Downe, the solicitor, still in practice?'

　　'No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years ago.'

　　Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer wouldhave noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased itsimperceptible tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentlemannoticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is MRS.

　　Downe still alive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as thewords were out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes.

　　'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living at the old place.'

　　'In East Street?'

　　'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family forsome generations.'

　　'She lives with her children, perhaps?'

　　'No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; Ithink they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife; but they aremarried and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe livesalone.'

　　'Quite alone?'

　　'Yes, sir; quite alone.'

　　The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; afterwhich he made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to thefashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was youngand interesting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in thedirection of the harbour-road. Just before getting to the pointwhere the pavement ceased and the houses isolated themselves, heovertook a shambling, stooping, unshaven man, who at first sightappeared like a professional tramp, his shoulders having aperceptible greasiness as they passed under the gaslight. Eachpedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other, and the tramp-like gentleman started back.

　　'Good--why--is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr. Barnet, surely!'

　　'Yes; and you are Charlson?'

　　'Yes--ah--you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather ill-usedme. By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . .

　　But I was not ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one handemphatically on the palm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr.

　　George Barnet, which many men would have thought full valuereceived--the chance to marry your Lucy. As far as the world wasconcerned, your wife was a DROWNED WOMAN, hey?'

　　'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'

　　'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. Andnow a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake! AndMr. Barnet, she's again free--there's a chance now if you care forit--ha, ha!' And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollowcheek and slanted his eye in the old fashion.

　　'I know all,' said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present intothe hands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soonin the outskirts of the town.

　　He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to awell-known house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubsplanted since the erection of the building that one would scarcelyhave recognized the spot as that which had been a mere neglectedslope till chosen as a site for a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, and gently moved into the semicirculardrive, which remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet onthe morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring herthe post of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of treesand bushes which revealed itself at every step was beyond allexpectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers vaulted the walks, andthe walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creeping plantsas high as the first-floor windows.

　　After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs,the visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, heannounced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'

　　The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, asif visitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; itseemed to be waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? Thepartitions which had been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when themortar was green, were now quite brown with the antiquity of theirvarnish, and the ornamental woodwork of the staircase, which hadglistened with a pale yellow newness when first erected, was now ofa rich wine-colour. During the servant's absence the followingcolloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of thedrawing-room.

　　'He didn't give his name?'

　　'He only said "an old friend," ma'am.'

　　'What kind of gentleman is he?'

　　'A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'

　　The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listenergreatly. After a pause, the lady said, 'Very well, I will see him.'

　　And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who hadonce been Lucy S............