I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out for Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly known--I heard not of them--and it was four months before I received a letter from Allan. "His heart" he told me "was gone from him--for his sister had died of a phrensy fever!"--not a word of Rosamund in the letter--I was left to collect her story from sources which may one day be explained. I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I could gain no information, whether he were dead or living. I passed the _cottage_. I did not dare to look that way, or to enquire _who_ lived there.--A little dog, that had been Rosamund's, was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, whose mind had suddenly gone from him--I stared vacantly around me, like one alienated from common perceptions. But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually weakened, as I mingled in the business of life. It is now _ten years_ since these events took place, and I sometimes think of them as unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me--but there are times, when Allan and his sister, Margaret and her grandaughter, appear like personages of a dream--an idle dream. CHAPTER XI Strange things have happened unto me--I seem scarce awake--but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has befallen me in the few last weeks. Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford. A month or two ago I had been busying myself in drawing up the above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my mind to dwell upon _facts_, which had begun to fade from it--the memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid--I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my native village--of the young loves of Rosamund and her Clare. A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk--I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon--after a slight breakfast at my inn--where I was mortified to perceive, the old landlord did not know me again--(old Thomas Billet--he has often made angle rods for me when a child)--I rambled over all my accustomed haunts. Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood--I felt like a child--I prayed like one--it seemed as though old times were to return again--I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew--but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.