I returned homeward very sad and grievously cast down, yet it was not a reasonable grief with which I was affected.

My situation had been long daily becoming worse, and there was not a chance within the scope of any probability that by perseverance the difficulties might be overcome. The advice of Mr. Hoskins pointed out the only way by which I could hope to escape from my unutterable anxieties, and I was determined to follow that advice “right away.” Still, I could not shake off the sense of calamity, which, as it were, gnawed my heart.

What I felt is ever in my remembrance terrible. It was a palsy of the mind; the black jaundice of despondency; I could exert no firmness, and dreadful suggestions transfixed me, as it were, with the pangs and cruelties of disease. But I might beggar the dictionary, and yet be poor in words to describe what I suffered; still, I was not actually touched with despair, for I had so often in trouble seen the shining hand of Providence suddenly stretched out of the cloud to help me, and I hoped it would yet be so again. Nevertheless, I was in spirit as one driven to the door of hell, and struggling with Fate on the threshold; nor was the measure of my affliction complete.

It was late in the evening before I reached the village in the neighbourhood of which my little farm was situated. A faint streak of the twilight still served to show the outline of the houses between me and the western sky, and here and there a light twinkled in a window. The voice of the river came to me as if many spirits were murmuring about man: it was a solemn time.

As I drew near to my own house, I saw the window-shutters were closed, but I discerned with surprise and a throbbing bosom, that more than the wonted candles were burning within. With a trembling hand I opened the door, at which I was met by Phemy, our old servant. She came towards me softly on her tiptoes, and raising her spread hands close to her cheeks, said, “Hush, hush!”