Old Isaac had turned in front of them, and was creeping along by the side of the path scarcely so high as the corn, his battered old hat about the same height as the yellow ears. When the cornfield ended they came out abruptly upon a grey old house, surrounded by a small rough square of grass, in which were some fine trees. The house looked as if it had been forgotten there, like an old plough. It had a square, respectable portico, with a pediment above it, and rows of windows chiefly broken, the lower ones closed with shutters which were falling to pieces. A huge elm-tree stood up at one corner, throwing its shadow over half the house; behind it were traces of the trees of an orchard; but the fields all round had encroached on the place, potatoes were growing within a stone’s throw of the great door, and everything bearing witness of its deposition and reduction from a human centre of life to a mere wreck and encumbrance on the earth. “Ay, ay,” said old Isaac, shaking his head, “they’d just like to pull it down and no leave one stone on another, like Jerusalem in t’ Bible; but the walls is good, and the woodwork’s good, and it would last his time and mine--and far more if Mr. Harry would come home, as he ought.” “Then you think he’ll come home,” said young Brotherton, not knowing what to say. “Wha said he wasna coming home, why should he no come home?” said Isaac, screwing up his eye once more into a red spark of angry light. “Them that say so know nothing about it, I can tell you that, Master. Them that are of that opinion have nothing to found it on. Who understands Master Harry like me, unless, maybe, it was his mother? Well, his mother and me, we’re both expecting him. That should be an answer, except to them that arguys just for the sake of arguyment,” the old man said, fiercely. “Will you come in and see the house?”