Immersed in such gloomy thoughts, he wandered on from room to room, feeding, as it were, the appetite for sorrow, by the sight of every object that could remind him of past happiness; nor were they few. There was the window-seat he loved to sit in as a boy, when all the charm of some high-wrought story could not keep his eyes from wandering at intervals over the green hills where the lambs were playing, or adown by that dark stream where circling eddies marked the leaping trout. Here was Helen's favorite room, a little octagon boudoir, from every window of which a different prospect opened; it seemed to breathe of her sweet presence even yet; the open desk, from which she had taken some letter, lay there upon the table, the pen she had last touched, the chair she sat upon, all, even to the little nosegay of scarce-faded flowers, the last she had plucked, teemed with her memory. He walked on with bent-down head and tardy step, and entered the little room which, opening on the lawn, was used by the Knight to receive such of the tenantry as came to him for assistance or advice; many an hour had he sat there beside his father, and, while listening with the eager curiosity of youth to the little stories of the poor man's life, his trials and his difficulties, imbibed lessons of charity and benevolence never to be forgotten. The great square volume in which the Knight used to record his notes of the neighboring poor, lay on the table; his chair was placed near it; all was in readiness for his coming who was to come there no more! As Lionel stood in silent sorrow, surveying these objects, the shadow of a man darkened the window. He turned suddenly, and saw the tall, scarecrow figure of Flury the madman. A large placard decorated the front of his hat, on which the words “Down with the Darcys!” were written in capital letters, and he carried in his hand a bundle of papers, like handbills, which he shook with a menacing air at Lionel. “What is this, Flury?” said the youth, opening the window, and at the same time snatching one of the papers from his hand. “It's the full account of the grand auction of Government hacks,” said Flury, with the sing-song intonation of a street-crier, “no longer needed for the services of the Crown, and to be sowld without resarve.” “And who sent you here with this?” said the young man, moderating his tone, to avoid startling the other. “Connor Egan, Hickman's man, gave me a pint and a noggin of spirits to cry the auction, and tould me to come up here and maybe you'd like to hear of it ye'selves.” Lionel threw his eyes over the offensive lines, where in coarse ribaldry names the most venerable were held up to scorn and derision. If it was some satisfaction to find that his father was linked in the ruffianly attack with men of honor as unblemished as his own, he was not less outraged at the vindictive cowardice that had suggested this insult.