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 inquire _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 grand-daughter, 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 bedchamber. 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window, through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass. I visited, by turns, every chamber--they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold--I touched the keys--I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music--blended with a sense of _unreality_, which at last became too powerful--I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.