She had been wandering in that dreary district for days, sleeping at night in lonely farmhouses and squalid inns, and ever creeping out in the early dawn to follow some aimless pilgrimage she scarcely knew whither. Yet all that afternoon she had been hanging around Grayfleet, looking in vain for some face that she might know and remember. She had stood gazing sadly at the little row of white-washed cottages where Mark and Luke Peartree once had dwelt; but strange folk now lived there, and the name of Peartree was quite forgotten. She had looked at the shining river, and she had seen, in a dream, the boat rowing in with its maimed and broken burden, while Uncle Luke stood in the bow wringing his hands. She had wandered into the old churchyard and looked in upon the very tombs where a troop of merry girls were playing, one happy Sabbath, so many years ago. Ah, that sweet, that far-off, half-forgotten life--was it all a dream too? Tramps and wanderers of all kinds were common in those parts, and few had paid any attention to the pale worn woman, plainly and poorly clad, who haunted the old village that afternoon. Now and then she had received a country greeting, and quietly replied. She had entered the Ferry Inn, and bought some bread and cheese, and while making her poor meal she had tried to question the landlord, a rough waterside character, about people she remembered. But he was a stranger where all seemed strangers. Then her feet had strayed again to the old churchyard, and this time she had strolled through the gate and searched among the graves. But she found no headstone or memorial to show her where Mark Peartree was lying, or where slept the kindly dame who had followed him so soon. So the day passed, and in the afternoon she had come out again upon the lonely marshes, where she now stood watching the smoky sun. Ah, yes, it must all have been a dream. Wandering out of the great city, fearful of pursuit, with no definite aim or hopes save that of forgetting and of being forgot, she had strayed half unconsciously towards the old landmarks--towards the only spot in the world where she had known a happy and peaceful time. What impulse had brought her thither she could scarcely divine; it was an instinct that sometimes brings the bird to its deserted nest, the hare to its long-abandoned form. She herself quite knew that it was hopeless. She knew that the little household at Grayfleet had been desolate for years; and that the only surviving member of it, if indeed he still survived, was Luke Peartree, after whose whereabouts unavailing inquiries had been made again and again. After Madeline Hazelmere was sent to France she had heard nothing of her uncle; then her great trouble had come, and in its shadow, while it lasted, all else was forgotten; but once more, after her return to England, she had tried to discover poor Uncle Luke’s whereabouts--always in vain.