Not that I forgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because it reminded me of what once was before all these troubles began.

I crawled at a snail's pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible.

In fancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the letters into my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang at her work within.

At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavy press, and not far off the whining of Peter Stoupe's everlasting psalm- tune.

All was as if-- Was I dreaming?
or was this the self-same psalm-tune come again to life, and, to accompany it, the dull grinding of the self-same press?
Strange, that the bar was off the door, and, as I came to it, a fellow with a ream on his back laboured out.