It was not difficult for him to find where they had been. The sea at least was as of old, and from it he could tell where the cottages had stood. But alas, where were they now! In their place an imposing crescent of high stone houses reared their tall front to the beach. John walked wearily down past their palatial entrances, feeling heart-sore and despairing, when suddenly a thrill shot through him, followed by a warm glow of excitement and of hope, for, standing a little back from the line, and looking as much out of place as a bumpkin in a ballroom, was an old whitewashed cottage, with wooden porch and walls bright with creeping plants. He rubbed his eyes and stared again, but there it stood with its diamond-paned windows and white muslin curtains, the very same down to the smallest details, as it had been on the day when he last saw it. Brown hair had become white, and fishing hamlets had changed into cities, but busy hands and a faithful heart had kept granny’s cottage unchanged and ready for the wanderer. And now, when he had reached his very haven of rest, John Huxford’s mind became more filled with apprehension than ever, and he came over so deadly sick, that he had to sit down upon one of the beach benches which faced the cottage. An old fisherman was perched at one end of it, smoking his black clay pipe, and he remarked upon the wan face and sad eyes of the stranger. “You have overtired yourself,” he said. “It doesn’t do for old chaps like you and me to forget our years.” “I’m better now, thank you,” John answered. “Can you tell me, friend, how that one cottage came among all those fine houses?” “Why,” said the old fellow, thumping his crutch energetically upon the ground, “that cottage belongs to the most obstinate woman in all England. That woman, if you’ll believe me, has been offered the price of the cottage ten times over, and yet she won’t part with it. They have even promised to remove it stone by stone, and put it up on some more convenient place, and pay her a good round sum into the bargain, but, God bless you! she wouldn’t so much as hear of it.” “And why was that?” asked John. “Well, that’s just the funny part of it. It’s all on account of a mistake. You see her spark went away when I was a youngster, and she’s got it into her head that he may come back some day, and that he won’t know where to go unless the cottage is there. Why, if the fellow were alive he would be as old as you, but I’ve no doubt he’s dead long ago. She’s well quit of him, for he must have been a scamp to abandon her as he did.” “Oh, he abandoned her, did he?” “Yes--went off to the States, and never so much as sent a word to bid her good-bye. It was a cruel shame, it was, for the girl has been a-waiting and a-pining for him ever since. It’s my belief that it’s fifty years’ weeping that blinded her.” “She is blind!” cried John, half rising to his feet.